


Ember: The Long Game

by MinP1072



Series: Ember [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, pretend it's a comic, super powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinP1072/pseuds/MinP1072
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Agent Elizabeth Milhoan is about to start her career as an FBI profiler, when her plans are sidetracked by the abrupt arrival of the infamous criminal, Raymond Reddington. But he seems to know more about her than he should - things about her that no one alive should know. Because Liz has a secret; there's much more to her than first appears…</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Originally published on ff.net, Sept 2015 – Feb 2016.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Issue 01: Seeing Red

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For now, at least, we're going to be following alongside canon as Red & Liz get to know one another. So, if you see some dialogue you recognize, I borrowed it, with thanks, from its bountiful creators. I also owe the brilliant Mike Mignola for some inspiration, and our own Catherine Medici for the idea of making Lizzie into a superhero…

It had been such a nice, normal morning, Rose thinks ruefully, as she sits in the dim, quiet room, waiting to be questioned. All her regulars coming through, with a nod or a smile; some of the friendlier agents even say hello. She'd just finished her coffee when it happened.

Seemed like nothing at first — handsome, well-dressed man with a nice smile and charming manners. It's a little odd to show up without an appointment, but he seemed so… proper. And then… he just dropped to his knees and it all just went to hell in a blur — lights flashing, sirens blaring, gates crashing down in a clamour, armored men with assault rifles swarming her lobby.

Here and she thought this job would be quieter than the courthouse. Her husband's right, she thinks, a little sulkily. She needs a new line of work.

* * *

He sits in the little glass box, waiting, smiling. He had forgotten how much he hates being in restraints, cuffed and trapped, but he knows that his distaste and discomfort doesn't show on his face. He wonders if she's awake yet, if she's ready for what the day will bring.

She can't possibly be ready.

* * *

She rolls over and snaps awake, inhaling sharply in pain. She takes a moment to breathe, slowly and deliberately, and then rolls up to sitting, grunting a little at the unexpected effort it takes. She glances at the clock, but it's okay — she's awake before the alarm and has plenty of time to get ready. Good thing, too, because it seems like she'll need it.

She swings her legs off the bed and examines her right calf — it's clotted nicely, and she's glad she was right, and she didn't need stitches. She pulls up her thin, black tank to examine her torso, wincing as her arms lift. As she feared, black and purple smear across the right side of her ribcage; she palpates the bruises, gently but firmly, with her fingertips. _At least two ribs cracked_ , she thinks, _but nothing broken_. Not so bad, considering the ferocity of the fight she'd been in.

* * *

He's getting impatient, in his transparent cage. He generally tries to keep his ego at least somewhat in check, he really does, but he expected a better response. Time is, as always, a factor here. His arm itches in a irritating way at the injection site of the RFID tag ( _amateurs_ ); but then it emits a short double beep. _Ah_ , he thinks, _at last, we're in business_.

"Evidently someone with the authority to make decisions has arrived," he announces cheerfully, letting just a hint of arrogance and smugness into his carefully modulated tone. "I think I smell the stench of your cologne, Agent Cooper. Smells like hubris."

He takes just a moment to chuckle inwardly. He's actually missed toying with authority…

"You must have many questions, so let's begin with the most important one — why I'm here. Remember the 1986 attack on the U.S. embassy in Damascus, the abduction of six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in '97, or the 2002 breach of the Krungthai Bank in Bangkok? You see these events as unrelated. I can tell you one man is responsible for all three. His name is Ranko Zamani. You want him. I want him. So let's say for the moment that our interests are aligned…"

* * *

She steps out of the shower and pats herself dry gingerly, careful not to strain her ribs or loosen any scabs. She frowns as she dabs herself meticulously with a soaked cotton pad, and the citrusy scent of her soap is replaced with the astringent smell of antiseptic. She might as well just wash in iodine, she thinks, a little bitterly.

She bandages the cut on her calf, just to be on the safe side, then stands up as straight as she can to wrap and tape her ribcage. There are many, varied ways in which she misses her father — sometimes his loss weighs so heavy she thinks she can't bear it — but right now, it's his strong, sure hands that she misses. The way he would gently tend to her hurts, telling her each mark is worth it, reminding her why she needs to fight, night after night.

* * *

"Were you wrong?" he asks, pleased things are going exactly as planned.

"I was wrong." Cooper, clearly, is _not_ pleased.

"Yes, you were wrong." God, he _loves_ this. "At least it's not the first time. Familiar territory. Now, I'll give you Zamani, but first…"

"No 'but firsts.' You don't decide anything," Cooper barks.

"Agent Cooper, you've overestimated your authority. I said I'll help you find Zamani, and I will. But from this point forward, there's one very important rule. I speak only with Agent Elizabeth Milhoan."

* * *

Dressed and fed — and wondering, for the umpteenth time, what it might be like to wear a colour, and not just black or grey — she screws the lid on her travel mug and heads for the door. She pauses outside on the steps of her apartment building to drop her keys in her bag and adjust one of her boots.

As she straightens, she thinks she can hear… is that a helicopter? Now there are sirens, too, and it's a mad cacophony of sight and sound as a helicopter _does_ swoop overhead, and two huge black SUVs roar up the street and screech to a halt in front of her.

A tall, built, square-faced blond man approaches the steps, flipping open a familiar badge holder as he does so.

"Agent Milhoan? Donald Ressler, Washington field office. I need you to come with me right away."

She evaluates him warily; his ID corroborates his statement, as far as it goes.

"Really?" she says, with her skepticism clear in her voice. "I was heading there anyway, which, if you know who I am, you already know. You give this treatment to every new kid on their first day?"

"Hardly," Ressler scowls; he sure seems pissed off. "These are _extremely_ special circumstances. Now get in the car before I have to cuff you and drag you off like a perp in front of your neighbours."

Not much of a bedside manner, but he couldn't be more typical FBI agent if he was on an "Uncle Sam" poster — and it's not as if she can't get away from him easily enough if things aren't as they seem.

She climbs into the first SUV alongside Agent Ressler, wondering just what form this twist of Fate will take…

* * *

_Well_ , she thinks, focusing carefully on not fidgeting, on not showing anything at all but the mask of calm she has spent years perfecting. _That was unexpected_.

Meeting Assistant Director Harold Cooper, inside a secret FBI black site no less, hadn't come anywhere _near_ what she had planned for her first day as a profiler. And now, a face-to-face chat with infamous international criminal Raymond Reddington — why not?

_Keep cool, Liz_ , she says to herself firmly, allowing herself a small, tension-relieving inner snicker. She walks down the metal stairs, heels clanging faintly, watching as the glass box opens up and recedes mechanically, keeping her eyes trained on the face of the man inside, who is staring just as intently at her, a faint smile on his face.

She's sure that she had never seen him before, but there's something about him… she can feel the all-too-familiar tingle in the back of her neck, the first hot whispers starting to sing in her veins and mentally clamps down as hard as she can.

_Who in hell_ is _this man?_

As the last ringing beep dies away and she seats herself primly in front of him, his smile grows from faint to full. It transforms his world-weary face completely, changing him into someone softer, warmer, welcoming.

"Agent Milhoan," he rasps in a deep, velvet voice that arrows straight into her — but there's something a little strange about the way he says her name. "What a pleasure."

"Tell me about Zamani," she demands flatly, determined to start off on the right foot here. "And why involve me? I'm nobody. It's… my first day."

"Oh, I think you're very special," he answers, his voice warmer than ever, his eyes searching. Then he straightens a little and becomes brisk. "Within the hour, Ranko Zamani will abduct the daughter of U.S. General Daniel Ryker. There'll be some kind of diversion, communications will be scrambled, then he'll grab the girl. He wants to be out of the country within thirty-six hours. If you don't move quickly, she will die. That's what I know."

"And how do you know that?" she asks, mind racing. What the hell is going _on_?

"Because I'm the one who got him into the country."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?"

He laughs, and he actually sounds genuinely amused. "No, of course not! I'm a criminal; criminals are notorious liars. Everything about me is a lie. But if anyone can give me a second chance, it's you…"

* * *

The long, long day swirls nauseatingly around in her head as she drags herself into her building and up to her apartment, her last image of Beth's frightened face fixed stubbornly in the forefront of her mind. _Is this a typical day as a field agent,_ she wonders, a little desperately, still not quite able to grasp the insane blur of events.

She makes to unlock her door, but it's already open, it's not quite latched. Her senses flick alert; she draws her gun and holds it at the ready, nudging the door open with her foot. The apartment is dark and quiet, but this just serves to put her more on edge. She slides inside as silently as possible, with her back up against the wall.

_Breathe quiet_ , she reminds herself, _make yourself invisible_. She listens as hard as she can, but hears nothing — where is the intruder? She's absolutely sure now that someone's there; she can feel the difference in the air, a heaviness in her space that doesn't belong.

Then, before she even registers the sound of a breath, something hits her wrist, hard, and the gun drops from her hands; a mere instant later, she feels the touch of cold metal on the skin of her neck. _Dammit_ , she thinks, _dammit, no!_ She breathes in once, carefully, and the light flicks on.

_Zamani_ , she has just enough time to think, then he is prodding her into a chair.

"So," he says, sounding almost friendly, but for the gun aimed at her face. "You found my friend the Chemist. I'm quite pleased to avoid having to pay him. What else have you found out about me?"

"Nothing," she says flatly, thinking hard, wondering how on earth he found her, found her apartment, and why.

He cocks the pistol and leans in; she doesn't speak, or even flinch. He slaps her face, hard enough to make her ears ring and her eyes water.

"What else do you know?" he asks, more menacing now. He presses the gun into her temple and raises an eyebrow at her.

"Not much, I swear," she says, angry again, but cautious. "There's a bomb, but we don't know what or where."

He gives a bitter little laugh. "Not so clever, then, as my friend Reddington says. Oh yes," he continues, seeing the change in her face. "He speaks of you often, too often. He is obsessed with you, yes? And there _is_ a bomb, and there will be many casualties, Agent Milhoan, and there is absolutely _nothing_ you can do about it."

He laughs again, then his gun hand moves suddenly; a bright light flashes behind her eyes, and there's nothing else.

* * *

Awareness comes back to her slowly; she feels dizzy and sick, and there's a piercing pain in her temple. She puts her hand to her head — _ouch_ — and it comes away sticky with blood.

_Ugh_ , she thinks, _pistol whipped_.

As first days in a new job go, this one is turning out both extremely long and extraordinarily painful.

She can feel the anger building as she tapes up her head in the bathroom; the heat swirls in her veins, and she can feel them starting to pulse. _Not safe_ , she thinks, _not safe to go out tonight, hurt and tired and already so angry_.

In a clean t-shirt and panties, her head bandaged and pounding, she sits on the floor beside her bed and starts the breathing exercises that Sam taught her so many years ago, to channel calm over anger, to quell the sparks of her rage and quiet the fire within.

_Tomorrow_ , she tells it, _tomorrow, you can have Reddington_.

* * *

It's very early when she strides through the hotel, paying no attention to the beauty of her surroundings, letting her anger eke out and spark through her, feeling it getting stronger and hotter as she walks. She slams into his room, ignoring the agents on the door — Reddington doesn't look even a little bit surprised to see her, adding weight to her suspicions about him.

"Did you send him?" she demands, breathing fast, clamping down inside. "Are you the one who brought him to me?"

"What are you talking about, Lizzie?" he asks coolly.

"He was in my house," she yells, control loosening in the face of his cavalier calm. "He broke into my _home_. He hit me…"

"Calm down and tell me what happened."

"Don't play stupid," she spits. "You're the only thing connecting us. How else would he have found me? Why else would he even bother? He told me you're obsessed with me."

"Did he mention the girl or the bomb?"

"We're not a team."

"Zamani."

"I'm not your partner."

"What did he say?" More insistent now.

"He… mentioned the Chemist… something about casualties, and… he talked about you."

"So, the bomb's still in play."

She's never spoken with anyone so skilled at evasion, and the cool, assertive tone of his voice just enrages her further. Her control slips, infinitesimally, but it's enough. In a split second, she feels the spark leave her hand; as fast as a blink, she moves her arm to knock the lamp beside her onto the floor, so the explosion of the light bulb will be lost in the smash of the lamp base. She clenches her fists, reining in the fire — _who_ is _this man, and what does he want with her?_

"Why was he in my house?" she screams, needing the release as much as the answer.

"Why did you let him threaten you? Hurt you?" he asks, ignoring her outburst, cool and placid as a lake. "Why didn't you stop him, Lizzie? We both know you could have."

It's panic, now, that fills her veins and makes her dizzy — what does he know about her and how does he know it? _What the hell is going_ on? She needs a distraction, and she needs it _now_.

Without really thinking about it, she picks up his heavy metal pen from the table in front of him, and jams it into his neck as hard as she can.

Striving to match the calm that he has smothered her in since she walked in the door, she starts talking.

"Now, you know I just punched a hole in your carotid. Best chance, one minute before you pass out. Now, tell me how to find Zamani, or I let you die right here. Understand?"

"Yeah," he says, _finally_ showing a touch of strain. "But if I die… you'll never know the truth about yourself…"

"You know _nothing_ about me," she snaps, willing it to be true. "Whatever you think you know… you don't."

She yanks the pen back out of his neck and drops it, coated in his blood, back on the table, and flees from the room. She's angry still, but now she's afraid too — so afraid she thinks it might overwhelm her.

* * *

The choking fear stayed with her the rest of the day, spurring her to move quicker, think faster, be better, better than she thought she could be. She found herself, against her will, reaching out to Reddington again and again, needing not just his guidance, but also the slant he puts on her thinking, the way he nudges her out of familiar patterns.

The worst part is, it worked — with him, she finds Beth, sees the bomb disarmed, and saves the day, just like a hero.

His piercing gaze captured hers as Ressler came pounding up to handcuff him again. "We're going to make a great team," he said, smiling a boyish smile at her even as the cuffs tightened around his wrists.

She can't banish the image of his face as she paces her apartment, wondering, worrying. Is it possible he _does_ know something about her, has even an inkling of the truth that she and Sam worked so hard her entire life to conceal?

She has to know what he knows — she can't hide anymore. She knows he's back in a holding cell, awaiting Cooper's response to his… proposal. She makes her way across town to the Post Office, trying and failing to come up with a plan, with something to say that will make him talk to her.

When the cell door opens, she can only look at him, his commanding presence diminished by the institutional blue jumpsuit. His face is pale, his eyes squinting almost shut against the sudden light — but she knows he recognizes her. She looks at him and waits, her heart beating hard, her palms sweaty, the fire flickering inside her.

He gives her a faint half-smile as he squints into her face.

"I knew your father, Lizzie. I knew Sam."


	2. Issue 02: Control

" _I knew your father, Lizzie. I knew Sam._ "

She tries to focus on the briefing, she really does. But all she can hear is the echo of the words he spoke before Ressler came slamming into the cold hallway in a rage, slamming the cell door shut and ripping her a new one for trying to talk to Reddington again without "approval" (read: permission), after what she had done to him in the hotel room. The fact that a jab in the neck didn't seem to particularly bother the man himself seemed to have no import.

"He knows things about me, Ressler," she'd snapped desperately. "I need answers. I _have_ to talk to him."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before," he'd replied, no sympathy on his set, angry face. "This isn't the local sheriff's office, Milhoan. There are rules and regulations for a reason. If you can't figure it out, you won't last long here, no matter what Reddington…"

"Milhoan?" Ressler's angry voice interrupts itself, cutting across her awareness with a jolt. "Are we boring you here?"

"No, sir, Agent Ressler," she says, and she thinks she's done a fair job of keeping the sarcasm out of her voice. "Just anxious to get moving."

"Well, then, you're in luck," Ressler replies, not bothering to hide _his_ sarcasm. "It's time to ante up, Milhoan — you're scheduled for a lie detector test."

* * *

She feels worn thin after the test, prodded and pushed, answering "no" over and over when she just wanted to scream "Why aren't you asking _him_?" Why can't anyone see that she wants answers just as much as they do?

As she stands outside the door of the little office where she'd been grilled, rubbing the back of her neck, another door opens across the hall, and Reddington emerges, held firmly between two innocuous agents. Satisfaction and frustration bloom together in her chest — the scrutiny, the prying and peeling had been plied upon him as well; she hadn't been there to witness, to try to unearth the truths that he surely held.

Their eyes meet briefly, and he smiles at her; despite her anger and tiredness and frustration, it seems a singularly sweet smile, an expression that fits his face in an odd way. She catches herself watching him move away down the hallway, and wonders what it is about him that is so compelling — is it just the secrets he keeps? Or something more?

She wonders too, how long it will take him talk his way out of the box this time…

* * *

Not that long at all, she discovers (unsurprised), as the aftermath of a passenger train derailment has them all scrambling. The work of The Freelancer, he says, and describes a horrific assassin who not only doesn't care about hurting innocent bystanders, but uses them deliberately as collateral damage to hide his true crimes. I can find him for you, he says, I know a guy. You should come with me, he says, like it's all just a lark, and even Cooper is laughing along.

Before she can really process what's going on she's in Montreal, in the back of a taxi with him, wondering what to do with her hands and hoping her awkwardness doesn't show. She can't ask him the questions that flood her mind and press up against her lips; although they aren't supposed to be there, she knows that FBI ears are surely listening.

_Brazen it out_ , she tells herself firmly, _what would a real field agent say here?_

"Before we do this, let me be clear — I'm not here to socialize. I have no interest in having dinner with you, nor do we have the time. We meet your contact, we get the name of The Freelancer's next victim, and we go. Understood?" _There_ , she thinks, _proper, businesslike, straightforward_. She's had enough of games.

"I agree with you completely," he replies, his solemn face belied by the twinkle in his eye. "But it _is_ a restaurant, and it _is_ dinnertime." And he hops out of the taxi to sweep around and open her door for her, _exactly_ like a polished gentleman on a first date.

At the same time as she rolls her eyes in frustration, a small spark comes to life inside her, warming and brightening as he leans in and offers her his arm.

* * *

The next day and night pass in a whirling blur of tactical meetings, the glamorous party, The Freelancer, and Reddington, always Reddington — taking her arm, his hand on her back, instructing her, guiding her, even as he ripped away another set of blinders and destroyed an idol.

"We never really know anyone, do we?" he asks her on the pier the next morning, looking as worn as she feels, and the stray thought crosses her mind that he has orchestrated this whole mess as a lesson to her.

Even though they are finally alone, with no prying eyes or ears, she doesn't have the will to question him; she is filled instead with a quiet ease that is as foreign to her as the gown she still wears.

Instead, she just gets up and goes home; strips off the borrowed dress, tumbles into bed and sleeps, sleeps like she hasn't since the night before a helicopter first flew overhead.

* * *

When she wakes, rested at last, she can't believe that she let such a chance go by. He'd been right there, right beside her, open and tired — maybe tired enough to actually answer her questions. But when she'd been sitting there, all she'd felt was a weary peace, a simple pleasure in being there with him in the early morning light with the smell of the sea washing over them…

And where the hell had _that_ come from, anyway, she wonders, angry now as well as frustrated. The last thing Reddington makes her feel is peaceful! Why does she give in to him? What is it about him that disarms her? It's as if he exudes calm the way she does heat.

She wishes again for Sam's solid presence, for his reassurance and common-sense advice — not to mention, she thinks wryly, if Sam & Red really _did_ know each other, he might be able to give her some much-needed insight.

She has to take back control, the control she desperately counts on, and use it to get some answers, to get the ground back under her feet.

* * *

He watches the sun set from the quiet penthouse, enjoying the beauty of the flaring colour that sweeps the skyline. It's rare, but welcome, that he gets a chance to enjoy the simple pleasures.

Dembe taps his shoulder hesitantly; he turns and smiles to reassure.

"If you really think she'll go out," the big man says quietly, "We should go if you want to catch her."

"Just watch her," he replies. "We'll just watch, this time. I need to see, to know what she knows, how much Sam had time to teach her. I just… I need to see her safe."

* * *

She goes out into the night — she knows she shouldn't, not now, not with everything that's going on. But the anxious and angry tumult inside her is frighteningly familiar, her fingers tingling and twitching, her nerves jumping — she needs the release, or she'll lose control completely.

It only takes a short time — a depressingly short time, she thinks — to find what she needs down a club-scene back alley only six blocks from her building. A date gone wrong, a crime of opportunity, a well-planned assault — she doesn't know and doesn't particularly care.

She moves silently, fast and fluid as flame, lashing out with a sweeping kick that knocks the legs out from under the unsuspecting assailant, whose attention was lost in the screeching and struggling woman in his sweaty grasp. Tangled in his loosened pants, he goes down flat on his back like a sack of flour, so she follows the kick with a downward elbow to his face that she thinks breaks his nose.

He starts screaming in agony, the girl still backed up against the chain-link fence is shrieking in fear, his face is covered in blood and her system is singing with adrenalin — she closes her eyes briefly as the darker parts of her just revel in it.

She stands straight, and delivers a hard boot to the gut of the writhing criminal on the ground, feeling the coils of tension finally start to ease out of her like fabric being ironed smooth, the roiling sparks inside her subsiding to a sullen glow of embers.

She offers a hand to the cowering girl, whose screams have quieted to snuffling sobs, and who is staring at Liz blankly, one hand clutching her blouse together at her throat.

"Come on," Liz says, as gently as she can. "He won't hurt you now. Do you have a phone?"

The girl nods shakily. "I-I did," she stutters out. "H-h-he took it, he threw it over there. It m-might be broken."

Liz turns her gaze in the direction the girl indicates and catches the glint of the screen in the cool neon light from the street. She picks it up — not even cracked — and clicks it on in some relief.

"Still working," she says cheerfully, offering to the girl. "You call 911. I'll just take care of… this." And she gives the man on the ground, trying feebly to struggle to his knees, a swift kick to the kidneys, just because she can. He collapses again, howling, and Liz pulls flex cuffs out of her pocket and secures his hands behind his back; then uses another to strap his bound wrists to the fence.

By the time she's finished, she can already hear the faint sound of sirens. "Gotta go," she says to the sniffling girl with a smile. "Could you just… not mention me?" And she lopes out of the alley, away from the main road, into the dark.

As she jogs behind the next building, sliding easily through the darkness, she thinks she sees something at the corner ahead. It's just a shadow, barely even an outline, but it has a distinctly familiar bearing…

As she approaches, slowing a bit in caution, the shadow turns and tips its head to her, then is gone in a swirl of dark coat, with no sound at all.

* * *

A few days pass quietly, days in the office catching up on paperwork with no sign of Reddington, then she's suddenly headfirst into chaos again, prepping to go undercover as an encryption expert against a spy killer so notorious he's thought of as a myth.

Panic is no good, it always starts the heat swirling and seeking inside her — to quell it, she needs to focus on something else, and this time she knows exactly what it should be. She won't allow Mr. Charisma to put her off again.

"Okay. Say I do this. What's in it for me?"

"Look at you," he says, his tone part-dryness, part-pride. "Camel trading like a Bedouin."

"If I'm going to help you, I want something in return," she insists firmly.

"Such as?" His tone is even drier, as arch as a forties starlet.

"The truth. Just once. I want to know what you meant about Sam."

"Well, then, we need to move quickly. Things are already in play."

* * *

They're suddenly underground, which he dislikes, but Lizzie, Lizzie's frantic, and the hot waves of panic coming off her are extremely worrying. Oh, she's good at hiding it — almost too good — nothing shows on her face, and her voice is urbane and smooth as she talks to Jin Sun and sets up the FBI's equipment.

But he knows, he can feel it, and when he moves to stand behind her, the heat coming from her is almost palpable and her fingers are twitching nervously over her keyboard. It's one of her tells, the twitching, he knows this from Sam — she's much closer to the edge than is safe, especially here.

He pushes calm at her as strongly as he can, leveling his voice, deepening it rich and smooth. When the opportunity comes to touch her, as a signal, he welcomes it with relief; his touch will soothe and reassure and quiet, even just the stroke of his thumb on her quivering back is enough.

And the two of them ease down together, in unison, as everything comes to a finish, successfully, it seems. _It's fine_ , he thinks at her, at the room, willing it to be so, as fiercely as he can.  _It's all fine_.

And there's a brief space of beautiful peace before it all goes to hell.

* * *

As they sit in the back of yet another luxurious sedan, she's still not quite sure what happened. She is positive she had been about to lose control in the suffocating underground room, no space to breathe, all those eyes watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. Then, he'd been there, filling her awareness with himself, talking and talking and talking in a steady stream of words that blocked out everything else, settling over her like a warm blanket.

She looks over at him, wondering — still shocky from the sudden shooting, the rush to freedom — how exactly he does it. He notices her looking and offers a faint smile — she won't be drawn in again, so she looks away, concentrating on her need and frustration. He sighs and looks away, too — as they both stare out the windshield, he finally speaks abruptly, unable to stand the weight of her silence.

"Luli can stay with me. Dembe will take you wherever you want to go." He looks over again, wanting to gauge her response.

"You didn't have to kill him," she says in reply, her voice heavy with defeat. She musters the strength to meet his eyes.

"I believe I will always do whatever I feel I have to do to keep you alive," he says carefully, voice laden with intent sincerity.

She stares at him — it's curious phrasing, she thinks. He nods, satisfied, turns away from her and starts to open his door.

_Oh no_ , she thinks, welcoming the flush of distracting anger, _Oh no, you don't_ , and she reaches past him to slam the door shut again, the fabric of his suit sleeve fine against the back of her hand. She thinks she feels a faint inhalation at the back of her neck, but is sure she's mistaken as she sits back and sees nothing but a faintly quizzical impatience.

"I held up my end of the deal," she says firmly. "Now it's your turn."

He just looks at her, that wry twist to his mouth that she is beginning to find incredibly irritating.

"You owe me an answer," she says stubbornly.

He sighs, faintly. "What's the question?"

"Did you really know my father? How? What…"

"That's already two questions," he interrupts, holding up a hand. "Don't push it."

She flushes red at that, but battles back the automatic angry retort in hopes of a real answer.

"The simple answer is yes. I knew Sam; we met many years ago when we were both in the Navy. We… stayed in touch, to some degree."

She raises an eyebrow — this both rings true and is expectedly noncommittal — it could mean anything from exchanging annual Christmas cards to weekly phone calls.

"Do you… Did he…" she falters, stops; she can't broach the topic of herself, can't initiate, the need for secrecy too entrenched.

He smiles softly at her. "I share your frustration," he says gently, almost wistfully. "It's not easy, is it?"

" _You_ act like it is!" she bursts out, words flooding out of her. "You… you swan around divulging secrets and playing the repentant criminal like it's all just a new and entertaining game — you have _no idea_ what it's like. Sam's gone, and I'm all alone. I have _nothing_." And now she needs her strength to hold back the tears.

"You have me," he answers simply, and touches her cheek, feather-light.

His touch floods her body with warmth — not her usual achy and anxious heat, but instead a peaceful easing that speaks to her of home and comfort and safety. _It's a lie_ , she tells herself fiercely, _don't let him pull you in again_.

"I know you were there," she grinds out, fighting it, reaching for the anger always waiting within. "Three nights ago, watching me. Why?"

"It's why I'm here, Lizzie. I'm here for you."


	3. Issue 03: Blaze

" _It's why I'm here, Lizzie. I'm here for you."_

* * *

"I… I don't understand," she says, nervous and edgy. "I thought… your list…" She trails off, thinking fiercely.

He watches as if he can see the thoughts moving across her face. "I think maybe you do understand," he says quietly. "That you can see quite clearly that the Blacklist, although a worthy and necessary enterprise, is also just a means to an end. I needed a reason to be in your life, Lizzie."

"But, _why_?" she insists, panicky fear rising, heat unfurling into her veins unhindered.

"Shortly before he died, Sam contacted me," he replies, sorrow in his voice now. "Outside our usual means. He was worried — there had been… indications that you were both being watched, tracked. When the next thing I heard was that he was gone, I had to come to you, Lizzie, to protect you."

"Protect me?" she asks, confused now, simmering; Sam had never said anything to her about a danger in their lives, about being watched. "From what? I'm nobody special…" And she wills it to be true, even as her fingers start to twitch. "What could anyone possibly want from me?"

"Really?" he asks, shaking his head at her. "I think we both know there are any number of agencies, both legitimate and criminal, who would be delighted, even eager, to get their hands on someone with your… abilities."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lies defiantly, curling her fingers around the edge of the leather seat to stop the twitching.

'"You're going to have to start trusting me if I'm going to help you," he returns calmly. "We both know perfectly well what you are."

Fear rises inside her like a tide, choking her. "I don't know what you're talking about," she grinds out. "And I _don't_ need your help."

"Don't you?" he asks sardonically, and looks pointedly down at her hands.

She follows his gaze, and her whole body jerks in surprise as she sees the curls of smoke starting to rise. " _I don't need your help!_ " she cries again, rips her hands away from the seat, and bolts, out of the car and away down the sidewalk, fleeing him as if for her life.

He sighs deeply, leaning back in his seat. " _That_ went well," he murmurs to himself unhappily, staring down at the blackened leather, a blurred outline of her hands branded there like an accusation, smoke still hanging, like an omen, in the air.

* * *

She focuses on work, avoiding him, ignoring his calls. She wants to earn her borrowed place on the task force, prove herself to Cooper, to Ressler. She completes reams of paperwork, answers questions, and helps Aram organize stacks of information on their three Blacklisters into a database of workable knowledge.

A week passes in this relative peace; then she gets a reminder email about the trial of Hector Lorca, a heavy-handed drug dealer whose case she had worked on before starting at Quantico. She's proud of her work on that case — Lorca is a despicable criminal, responsible for the disappearances and probable deaths of over 100 people. And those are only the ones they know of.

She's going over her notes carefully when Ressler sticks his head into her office.

"Hey," he says congenially.

"Hey," she says back, sighing and stretching her neck a little.

"What's going on?" he asks, wandering in and leaning on her desk.

She's a little curious — he's never shown any particular interest in her work outside of active cases up to this point. "I've got court this afternoon," she replies, watching his face. "Just going over some notes."

"Mind if I come with you? Nothing would make me happier than seeing Hector Lorca being sent away for life."

_Ah_ , she thinks, a little disappointed. He knows exactly what she's working on, of course — she knows that they keep tabs on her, desperate to establish some kind of connection between her and Reddington. They're still evaluating her.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're less interested in watching Lorca than in watching me?" she asks, just to see what he says.

"I don't know," he says back, watching her just as carefully as she is him. "Are you hiding something?"

_If only you knew_ , she thought wryly, and is about to answer him in kind when Meera puts her head in the door.

"Dembe made contact," she says briskly. "Reddington wants to see you — alone."

He's finally gotten sick of her avoidance, she thinks. He'll make her face him, because she can't refuse to meet with him when it might be about a case, when the whole team knows about the meet. Her irritation eases into anger as she marches out of the Post Office, and she welcomes the strength it gives her.

* * *

He's sitting on a bench, all casual elegance in yet another perfectly tailored suit, reading the paper without a care in the world. She sits beside him, careful to leave a space between them wide enough that at least two other people could sit there. He doesn't look at her, but instead starts to read aloud.

"It was only through the efforts of an FBI profiler that suspicion began to fall on Hector Lorca, leading to his arrest and indictment," he reads, and then he flips the paper down and smiles at her. "Well done, Lizzie. Very impressive."

"You are aware, then, that I'm due in court in three hours," she answers stiffly, determined not to give him even a fraction of an inch.

"Your case is about to go sideways," he says back, regretful knowledge shading his tone.

"Why?" she answers sharply, "What's happened?"

"Lorca's people have reached out to me," he says coolly. "Normally, I wouldn't give him the time of day — he's a vicious little drug-lord thug. Certainly nothing there to hold my interest. But their request is of great interest because it concerns you."

"What's he asking for?"

"Transportation out of the country, new identity — passport, bank account, credit cards — as well as the proper introductions to reestablish his operations elsewhere. And he wants it by tomorrow night. For whatever reason, Lorca is under the impression he's about to be a free man."

No, she thinks, he's wrong, she's worked too hard. "I've got a witness testifying today who's got him cold," she insists. "Lorca's not going anywhere."

"Something _is_ going to happen, Lizzie," he says, watching her so intently she feels like he's trying to see under her skin to the workings of her body beneath. "I don't think you're going to have a very good day in court at all."

* * *

And, of course, he's right — it all goes completely pear-shaped, a juror poisoned, her witness gone. _He knew_ , she thinks and wondered what else he knew and hadn't told her. She knows she has to call him, reach out, and she knows it won't be pleasant… but she's wrong, at least in part.

"Sweetheart," he answers her call with great cheer. "Not really the best time for me."

"I don't… Wait, what? Where are you?" There's a strange echo to his voice over the phone that tells her he's not local anymore.

"Haiti," he replies, somewhat noncommittally. "Keeping up appearances."

She notices that he's avoiding using her name, when he normally says it as often as possible — trying to acclimatize her to his presence, she thinks, trying to make her comfortable with him. Is he protecting her from something by hiding her identity from whomever he's with?

She huffs out a frustrated breath — it doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing. She needs him. She questions him about Lorca, pleads for help — well, demands his help, but he should know…

But he doesn't, or if he does, he doesn't let on. He blithely disregards her worry, brushes the whole episode off as a lost cause that isn't really that important anyway — and certainly not worth _his_ time — and hangs up on her.

She sits, speechless, affronted and hurt, though she's not sure why. Is this just payback for her cold shoulder, for the ignored calls? _That's not fair_ , she thinks huffily, _this is different_. She catches herself then, and takes a moment to wonder why she takes such a virulent dislike to being put aside by him.

She comes up empty, yet again.

* * *

At home — a break to recharge, Ressler said, though she thinks he just wanted her out of the way — she goes over it all again in her mind. What is Lorca trying to accomplish? With the disposal of the witness, the only new trial will certainly be a short one, and he is virtually guaranteed a walk. This is infuriating, and a bit confusing — Reddington had said Lorca expected to be leaving the country inside of the next day, and a new trial will take weeks, if not months, to set up.

He's still planning something else, he must be expecting to escape custody, but how? She wonders if there's anything she can use to get Ressler to bring him into the Post Office for questioning. There's a lot less chance he'll be able to escape from them…

She sighs, and rubs at her temples a bit. Over the week she's been avoiding Reddington, she's been getting dull headaches that both hinder her ability to concentrate and sharpen her irritated mood. Meeting with him that morning didn't seem to have helped any, so she supposes she can dispose of the theory that he'd somehow been causing them in an effort to get her to speak to him again.

Her rambling thoughts are interrupted by the chirp of her phone; in seconds, she's up and out the door. _A lead_ , she thinks gladly — it will at least help to focus her mind on more productive things.

* * *

He crosses and uncrosses his legs restlessly, anxious in spite of himself to get back to DC, to check on Lizzie. There's something about the things she's told him about Lorca that is niggling at him, but he can't quite place it.

He takes a swig of beer and leans back, thinking over what she'd said to him that afternoon on the phone. Something about the victims… and his mind clicks. _But no, that's ridiculous_ , he thinks, _a two-bit thug like Lorca…_

He'll just check in with her, see if they've found anything. Just to make sure that she's safe.

Her answering voice is sharp and impatient — his dismissal earlier angered her, and it pleases him in a perverse way.

"What do you want?"

"I've been thinking about your case," he tells her. "What do you have so far?"

"I'm at the crime scene," she answers, and her frustration is palpable, even over the phone. "Or what we think is the crime scene."

_Shit_ , he thinks. Sometimes, it's no fun at all being right all the time. "You didn't find anything," he says aloud, and it's not a question.

"Not much," she says back, and her questions are fully audible in her voice.

"Tape residue on the walls?"

"How do you know that?" She's instantly on alert, and he smiles to himself.

"Look in the tub," he instructs, and he can hear her moving through the room in the background. "Run your fingers around the drain. What do you smell?"

"Chemicals," she answers, curious and thoughtful.

"You see, Lizzie, _now_ I'm interested."

"Why?" she asks, instant suspicion in her tone.

"The Stewmaker is in town," he answers, and if it sounds ominous, he can't help it. "You're going to need a plumber."

* * *

They're all back in the Post Office, even Lorca, who's being held in an interrogation room, waiting on Reddington like he's some kind of… _Ugh_ , she thinks, she doesn't even know what she thinks anymore.

He clatters in just then, coinciding neatly with her thoughts in that way he does, shadowed by Dembe and beaming genially around the room. He winks at her, and she narrows her eyes, about at the end of her patience. Without introduction, he starts in, delivering facts in a surprisingly sharp and concise manner.

"The Stewmaker is a true Blacklister," he says, pacing while he talks so they all have to watch him. "The only fellow to engage when one has a particular sort of disposal problem. He's a chemical expert who turns his victims into chemical stew, thus the _nom de guerre_. No DNA. No nothing. He makes corporeal problems literally disappear."

He meets her eyes, now, demanding her attention — she thinks absently that he looks worried. "But it's much more than the proficiency of his tradecraft that gets him on the list," he continues. "He's a… trophy collector…" He's right in front of her now, capturing her gaze. "Remembrances of his victims. _Memento morti_."

Her heart is fluttering a little — she feels like he's talking just to her, his eyes piercing, and he smells amazing… _Stop it!_ She admonishes herself, _What is_ wrong _with you?_

"Now, you've lost your witness, and with him your case. But the Stewmaker is the key to so much more." He finally looks away, and she's able to take a deep breath, reorient herself. "He's served the needs of international syndicates, repressive regimes, anyone with the need and means to pay. The Stewmaker knows where _all_ the bodies are buried. He's got the answers to hundreds of unsolved murders."

"So," Ressler says, "How do we get him?"

"He's notoriously cautious," Reddington answers. "I don't even know who he is or where he bases his operation. And believe me, I've tried to find him."

"Lorca knows," she says, watching him, caught up. "If not his name, he knows how to make contact."

"Yes," he answers, and it feels like they are in sync, partners. "I suggest you encourage Mr. Lorca to share that information. The Stewmaker is obviously here now, but he won't be for long. And if you let him slip away, he'll be as gone as his victims, and you'll never see him again."

* * *

But Lorca gives them nothing, even in the face of Meera, even in the face of detention in the hands of Homeland Security. _The Stewmaker must be a truly terrifying man_ , she thinks.

She insists on going along on the custody transfer, talking at Lorca the whole way, threatening as much as she is able, hoping for a crumb of a clue. As they approach the waiting helicopter, she tries again, she can't give up — she gets nothing, though, from Lorca but venomous bile. She's starting to worry a little…

At least until the explosion knocks her off her feet and several metres backward through the air, slamming her head into the ground. Dizzy and sick, she tries to raise her head, to sit up, to see what's happening. All she sees is flame; flame is everywhere. This further confuses her — it doesn't belong here, she hasn't done anything. She can't understand what's happening. Shadows are crossing the dancing light, people are running and yelling.

Footsteps thud up behind her and she's abruptly engulfed in darkness. Hands grab her shoulders roughly and she's dragged along the tarmac and shoved into what she thinks must be a vehicle. _A hood_ , she thinks blearily, pain fogging her thoughts. _They don't want me to see where they're taking me_.

"It's your turn now," Lorca's voice hisses at her out of the darkness. "it's your turn to have your life taken away from you, bitch."

What must be his fist connects with the side of her head, and the darkness takes her over completely.

* * *

He's still at the Post Office, trying to pin down information, when the word comes down. The transfer has been ambushed, Lorca's escaped, Elizabeth taken. He doesn't need his brilliant mind to know just what Lorca will do with her, and his fear is second only to his cold rage at the thought of it, at the incompetence of those who are meant to protect.

Ressler and Cooper come up behind him, and now there's an explosion on the screen overhead.

"We just got the surveillance footage from the airport," says Cooper.

"What did you know about the transport attack?" demands Ressler.

"How did he know where to strike?" Cooper is genuinely wondering, not accusing.

Ressler is another story. "I swear to God, if you had anything to do with…"

He's not going to stand there and take that kind of crap from Donald Ressler. "What you're forgetting is that we want the same thing, Agent Ressler," he cuts in sharply.

"Why would he kidnap Agent Keen?" Cooper asks. "What's his play here?"

"I have a contract with Lorca to personally hand him a new identity," he answers smoothly. He'll make that meeting regardless of what they say, but he needs to at least try to stay on terms with the task force.

"That's never gonna happen!" Ressler cries, angry and trying to take back control.

Red seethes. "Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Milhoan. I'd say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas."

"We'll need time to set up a sting," says Cooper thoughtfully.

_No_ , he thinks, increasingly angry. _There_ is _no time, here_. "He's been evading capture for years — he'll be more on guard than ever. Any change of plans, and we'll lose him. I meet with Lorca alone."

"An FBI agent's life is in jeopardy," Ressler shouts. "There's no bargaining here!"

Red just looks at him, with every ounce of disdain he can muster — it's quite a lot, actually. "When confronting complex equations, the simplest answer is most often the correct one. You lost her. I can find her. It's that simple."

* * *

She comes to slowly, movement of a car still beneath her, but she's lying down. Is it… she tries to shift, but can't. Her hands are tied behind her back awkwardly; she's not hooded anymore, but blindfolded, and her mouth is covered in what feels like tape, likely duct tape. She's in a trunk, and it's quite quiet, and there's a faint smell of… dog?

She has time to think how odd that is, then the car slows and the engine shuts off. She hears a door open and shut, the driver getting out, she thinks, then — _stop dancing around it_ , she tells herself firmly, _you know it's him, it's the Stewmaker, and if you don't do something here, you're going to die_.

Another door opens and shuts, then there's a much louder click and the darkness brightens as hands force themselves under her body and lift her out of the trunk. He seems to be trying not to be rough as he sets her on her feet and frees her mouth. She takes a gasping breath of fresh air; it smells clean, of earth and pine. They must be in the woods.

He starts her moving, half-guiding, half-pushing her forward; with her hands tied, walking is difficult, and his grip on her jacket is distracting. She's both frightened and angry now, every vein flushed with heat, and sparks dance eagerly and impatiently within, but…

_No_ , she thinks fiercely, wrestling for control. _NO, not another person, not ever._ There are lines that she _cannot_ cross. She has training for this type of situation, she's an FBI agent and a profiler, she can get out of this without… she can get out of this.

"My name is Elizabeth," she says, seeking some kind of foothold with him. "I have a name. I'm a person. I want you to know who I am."

She gets nothing back but a grunt, and a harder push to keep moving.

"What's your dog's name?" she asks, persistent. "What kind of dog is he?"

The sparks inside are bigger; it's harder to focus and she's starting to panic. It's bad now, so bad, she needs Sam, something terrible is going to happen, she _knows_ it.

* * *

He was angry, at first, to be saddled with Ressler on this crucial meeting, but it turned out advantageously, after all. He actually loves having to think on his feet, having to pick his way carefully through a challenge, sliding through the danger like smoke.

And it worked, at least partially — they've got a P.O. box, which leads them to a name, and that's all he needs. He gives Dembe the nod and they're out of the Post Office and on their way, because he can't wait anymore. There's no time for the plodding of the FBI, for guesses and procedures and red tape and warrants — the danger is entirely too great.

They're in the car and driving even as he starts the process of tracking the Stewmaker, and driving is better, he needs to be in motion before he starts to lose control. The dog is the answer, just as he thought it would be, they can track the dog and they'll find her. Please, just let them be in time, let them not be too late.

How will he live with himself if they're too late?

* * *

She knows that all her attempts at talking have been for nothing when he approaches her with a glistening needle in his hand. She can smell chemicals in the air in the small cabin — the room behind the one they're in boasts a large white tub, and whatever's brewing in there emits a harsh stink that burns at the inside of nose and the lining of her throat.

She wants to recoil as he grasps her arm, but she's still bound and helpless — _not helpless_ , she reminds herself, and as her panic grows, she starts to think it might finally be time to leave morality behind.

It hurts when he jabs in the needle; he's not being so careful anymore. She knows then that she can't talk her way out of this, that she needs to fight. It's almost a relief to reach inside herself, but… the sparks are dwindling, they're far away; even seeking them, she can't quite pull them to the surface, she feels like she's filled with fog.

"What did you give me?" she asks, dizzy and scared.

"A sedative," he says, in calm, even tones. "It will eventually cause paralysis, yet maintain your sensitivity to pain."

She so very frightened; why can't she find it? Where is the flame now, when she needs it so very badly? It's the drug, she realizes, an extraordinarily fast-acting one that has dulled her senses and put action out of her reach. He looks at her, and his face is sad and regretful, and the fear intensifies, thick in her throat.

"I was… I was asked to make you suffer," he says slowly, and moves around the chair to stand behind her. "I'm… I'm sorry. It's my job."

"It's my job to read people," she manages to slur out. "And you're not a killer."

"I'm a lot of things, Liz," he says sadly, and she feels his heavy hand stroke down her hair to rest on her left shoulder. "There's a nerve cluster just under the shoulder muscle," he continues, gripping hard and digging in his fingers. "Just wait. The pain should be quite intense."

For one breathless moment, there's nothing. Then a pain so debilitating she nearly vomits, and she screams out her agony — she's so alone.

"Just wait," he says again, and tears are running down her face and she's having trouble breathing, but…

But the pain is a jolt to her system and the heat is rushing through her like a river.

She chokes out a laugh and that gives him pause — he lets go of her shoulder to walk back in front her. He grips the back of her head by the hair and yanks to bring up her face.

She's flooded with triumph when she sees fear in _his_ face, now, because she knows that her eyes must have changed, knows what he must see there — the leaping flame. She's hot enough already that the ropes binding her are ash; she whips her hands around to clamp onto his arms before he can run.

He howls at the burn of her touch as his shirt begins to smoke, and the sound gives her further strength.

"Goodbye, Stanley," she says softly. "I'm sorry."

And she lights like a match.

His clothes catch fire quickly, and she lets him drop to the floor as she stands, pain forgotten and blazing like a torch. She feels amazing, flush with power — it's been so long since she let the flame take her fully that she'd almost forgotten the rush it brings, the seductive heat and hunger.

She can hear the shrieks and crashing of Kornish behind her as he struggles to help himself; can hear the crackle of the wood of the walls and furnishings catching as he flails around. She ignores it all as unimportant, but the whimpering of the dog catches her attention. She looks around and sees it cowering by the door, and walks over to open the door and let it out, careful not to get too close.

She's burning so hot now that the door immediately lights as she pushes it open, but there's enough open space for a dog, who slinks out and sits a short distance away and howls for its master.

Remembering Kornish, she turns, just in time to see his burning body bang into the edge of the long tub at the back of the cabin and tumble in with an ominous splash.

There's a long moment when nothing happens but an abrupt increase in the chemical smell in the air. Then, with a sudden _whoomph_ of sound, the tub explodes in a noxious fireball that blows off the roof and sends shards of porcelain flying in all directions.

_Second time today_ , she has time to think, as the force sends her, still ablaze, off her feet and out into the night.


	4. Issue 04: Afterburn

They're still a few miles out when he starts to smell smoke. He wouldn't have thought it possible to become more afraid, but he was wrong — the bone-deep terror that fills him now shakes him to the core.

Before he can say anything, Dembe presses on the gas and drives like a demon — he always knows what Red needs — so they reach the cabin in short order. Or… what used to be a cabin. All that remains in the cleared yard is a rough circle of jumping flame, bright and incongruously cheerful against the night sky. He leaps out of the car, but finds he can't approach the fire; its flame is impossibly hot. He scans the area, trying to hold back the panic, and finds her at the edge of the wood, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the fire burn.

He goes to her immediately, flooded with relief. He wonders, looking at her empty face, if she even realizes she, too, still burns, coated in subdued tones of red and gold, radiating heat and flickering light. Caught between inferno and ember, he's already sweating; he takes his jacket off and tosses it aside before he crouches in front of her.

Her still, somber features are crystal clear behind the flame, and he thinks he has never seen anything quite so wrenchingly beautiful as her pale and tragic face behind its mask of golden light. Her eyes seem full and wet, but she isn't crying — it takes him a moment to realize that her tears are evaporating the instant they touch her skin, and his heart breaks for her, just a little more.

He yearns to touch her, call her back to herself and to him, but he can't. He has to settle for calling her name, for reaching out with emotion, and hoping that there's enough of her left to respond.

"Lizzie," he tries quietly, at first, pushing all the calm he has left in her direction. "Sweetheart, look at me." The small endearment, spoken earlier with such deliberation, used as a distraction, now comes naturally, effortlessly, without any thought at all.

She doesn't even blink, just stares past him into the blaze beyond with hollow eyes. He tries to reach out with his mind as he had once been taught — she's a mess, the turmoil inside her a vortex of emotion that he instinctively shies away from.

He sits back on his heels and breathes deeply, soothing himself, blocking out the fire behind him, putting his fear aside. Then he reaches out again, pushing calm and understanding into her stubborn mind, easing her as best he can without touch. He whispers to her, soothing nonsense words, letting his voice caress her in place of his hands.

Slowly, her flame begins to dwindle away, drawing back into her skin until she is just a glowing coal perched on a blackened circle of scorched earth. She blinks, then, and focuses on his face in front of her for the first time.

"Red… Reddington?" she says hesitantly, her voice hoarse and raw. "What are you doing here? How… What… Oh, God…" Her expression breaks as reality seeps in.

"Lizzie," he says gently, aching for her, reaching to touch her face, but forced to stop short. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

She's rocking back and forth and shaking her head in denial, utter despair painting her features.

"Lizzie?" he says again, a bit more firmly — he's wracked with sympathy, but they're short on time.

"I… I…" she can't muster the words properly. She looks at him, and her devastation cuts like a knife. "I…" And then the dam bursts, words flowing in a torrent of despair. "I failed him, I failed Sam. I promised, I promised him I'd never let this happen, never a person, I'd do whatever it took to control… I… I'm a monster…" And she's wailing by the end of it and he's never in his life needed to hold another person the way he does now. And he can't.

Instead, he layers his tone with soothing gentleness, with reassurance, with faith. "No," he tells her, as emphatically as he can, as he dares. "No, Lizzie, you are _not_. Stanley Kornish was the monster — responsible for the horrific destruction of hundreds of lives. He was moments away from murdering you in cold blood," and his gorge rises just thinking about the desecration Kornish would have brought to her. "Defending yourself with the only weapon you had does _not_ make you a monster, Lizzie. It makes you a fighter. It makes you a survivor."

"I… I didn't even try to save him," she says, low and defeated. "Dad… Sam, he'd be so disappointed in me. I… I watched Kornish burn and I didn't care. Not even a little…"

"Oh, sweetheart," he replies (it comes easily, so easily), a little sadly, but focusing on maintaining a strong send of compassion and care. "You're wrong. Sam would be glad, glad you survived, glad that you fought for yourself. He loved you, Lizzie, never doubt that, ever."

She looks into his eyes, the gold in her own shining damply, her expression now holding a morsel of hope. "I saved the dog," she snuffles quietly. "But he ran away when everything exploded."

"Okay, Lizzie. He'll be okay, I promise. Now, can you focus for me? The FBI will be here soon, and we can't stay."

A tendril of panic wipes across her face, and he forces himself to speak sharply to keep her attention on him. "Elizabeth! Control it, _now_ — you know what to do, I know you do."

"Wh-What?" she stammers, her eyes meeting his again. "I don't… What are you talking about?"

"Elizabeth," he says matter-of-factly, giving it a touch of impatience for emphasis. "You're still burning. We need to get you out of here, but you've got to get yourself together, first." She's in shock, he thinks, whatever else; she didn't even notice her own flame.

She's focusing inwardly now, her expression intent, and the remainder of her glowing flicker disappears with a slight _oomph_ of displaced air. He feels the natural chill of the night air seep between them. She opens her hands and looks into them, then back up at him, and now she _is_ crying, her tears still faintly steaming as they run down her heated cheeks.

"I can't… I can't just leave," she chokes out. "They'll be on their way here, looking for me. I need to… report in. Give a statement."

"Sure," he says, his sarcasm like a band of pressure around her head. "And just how will _that_ go, Lizzie, hmm?" He puts on a slightly ridiculous falsetto. "You see, Agent Ressler, I'm pyrokinetic. Did I forget to mention that on my paperwork?"

"Oh, shut up," she snaps back, and he's enormously relieved to hear her sound about halfway back to herself. "I'll think of something. I can't just… take off."

"Of course you can," he answers briskly, heaving himself to his feet with a wince. "I'll call Donald from the car and put him off for a bit so we can decide what the story should be. Besides, you need some care, sweetheart — you're bleeding."

She touches her face and her fingers come away sticky and wet. _The tub_ , she thinks dimly, then her mind shies away. He holds out a hand to her and she takes it numbly, feeling a wave of compassion roll through her as she does. If she could focus, she'd wonder about that, but her mind is besieged by memory now, wreathed in the screams of the man she'd burnt alive.

She lets Red lead her to his car, tuck her into the backseat, even do up her seatbelt — she can't think properly, lost in the horror of the day's events. As they drive off into the night, she is only faintly away of Red taking her hand again, rubbing soothing circles into it with his broad thumb; only slightly more aware of the care and love and understanding he sends to her, as long as he can manage it.

* * *

She doesn't say anything on the way to Reddington's current safe house — a cozy little two-bedroom in a walk-up in Bellevue. She doesn't seem to hear his short phone conversation with an irate Ressler, Red putting him off with short assurances that she is safe, but he is taking her for medical attention and rest, that she'll check in personally in the morning. She turns to look absently out the window as Red hangs up mid-tirade, and doesn't look back for the remainder of the drive.

She's almost docile as she lets him help her out of the car, as she follows him into the building, up the stairs, into the apartment. If he couldn't feel the hurt, the fear, the regret that poured off her in waves, he'd believe her calm, cool and unaffected. Since he could, he stays quietly in control, leading her into the bathroom to clean her up. He sits her down on the closed toilet lid, and gently washes her face clean of dirt and blood. He has to put butterfly closures on the worst cuts on her forehead and cheek, but he doesn't think that either is serious enough to scar.

He hesitates now, but he has to make sure she's all right, and the unrelieved black that she wears gives nothing away.

"Lizzie, where else are you hurt?" he asks, trying generalities, hoping she'll answer him.

She blinks at him slowly, as if she's just coming awake. She's tired now, so very tired, and his big, gentle hands on her face had eased away the nightmare in her head and made her sleepy… _wait_ , she thinks, _something's different… are there_ two _of him? When did_ that _happen_ , she wonders muzzily. One Reddington is more than enough of a challenge on a good day.

"I don't know, Reds," she says, trying to keep a straight face, but the two of him are suddenly very funny, especially since they keeping moving so much. "I don't really feel anything at all. Except my head hurts," and as soon as she says it, it gets a hundred times worse. "My head feels _terrible_. Is it all still there, Reds?"

_Concussion_ , he thinks grimly. _This will be a fun night_.

"There's only one of me, I assure you," he says aloud, dry as a bone, "And that one needs to make sure that there are no serious cuts anywhere. I can't have you bleeding all over my linens."

She shrugs dizzily; thinks that the left-hand Red has a nicer smile than the right. "Okay," she replies. "Left Red can look me over."

With some difficulty, she peels off her jacket; she's only got a support tank on underneath, so she rolls it up from the bottom to reveal her abdomen.

"Some scrapes, mostly superficial," he murmurs, scanning her quickly and trying not to focus, trying not to think. Trying not to think about whether her skin would be soft over the firm planes of muscle. Trying not to think about the sleek curve of her waist or the shadow at the notch of her collarbone.

He gives himself a brisk mental shake and smiles at her. "Mind if I roll up your pant legs?" he asks, feeling foolishly awkward.

She tries to roll her eyes, but it makes her instantly nauseous. "What about the top half?" she says, with some irritation. "If you're going to check me over, Left Red, you might as well be thorough." And she manages to kick off her short boots, although she's not quite sure how.

He pauses to collect himself, but before he can decide what to do or say, she's fumbling at her buttons and lifting her rear to wriggle her pants over her hips, losing her balance and falling into his shoulder in the process. He sighs, and briefly indulges himself in running a hand through her hair.

"Okay, Lizzie," he says, taking her by the shoulders and gently sitting her back up. "Let me take care of you. You just… try to stay upright."

He tugs her pants off, carefully thinking of nothing at all; folds them neatly and turns to put them aside on the floor.

"Um… Reds?" Her voice sounds wobbly and vague. "There's something… ugh…" she trails off as he turns back to her, scanning her legs quickly. His eyes light almost immediately on a gash at least a couple of inches long on the inside of her left thigh, oozing blood onto the toilet lid.

"Okay," he says, soothing, calm, "Keep still, Lizzie."

He reaches over for the damp washcloth, keeping his eyes on Liz — she's looking at the ceiling, humming, trying to distract herself. He grasps her firmly by the knee to ensure that she holds still and cleans the wound thoroughly, wincing in sympathy but not stopping as she whimpers a little in pain at the pulls on the torn edges of skin.

He holds the cloth over the cut as he digs through the first aid kit with his other hand — one suture pack left, and about a half a dose of local anesthetic. It will have to do. "Keep still," he reminds her, loading a hypodermic with every drop he can shake out of the small bottle.

He firms up his grip on her knee, uses an alcohol wipe on a spot on her quadricep just over the gash, then injects the drug, quick and smooth.

"Ow," she complains in surprise. "What was that?" She's looking at him again, but her eyes are still hazy and unfocused.

"Just a needle," he says soothingly. "I have to close this cut, sweetheart — it's not going to stop bleeding on its own. Just do your best to hold still, and… you probably shouldn't watch."

Uncharacteristically obedient, she immediately screws her eyes shut, clenching her fists by her sides.

"It's okay," he says, his voice like a comforting stroke, giving her time to relax while the anesthetic starts to work. "It's okay. Relax, Lizzie, I won't hurt you."

When her body eases, he lets go of her knee and tears open the suture kit. He takes small, neat stitches, not wanting a scar to mar the perfection of her creamy skin, knotting each stitch carefully for more secure healing. He focuses carefully on bringing the ragged edges of the cut together, wiping away her blood as he needs to. He tries not to think about the softness of her skin, the warmth of her belly beside his head; he closes himself off to the slight murmurs of discomfort she can't quite keep in as he pierces and tugs. He takes ten stitches in all, and is pleased with his results — it should heal well, he thinks. He wipes the area clean again, then covers the stitched wound with a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic gel, covers _that_ in more gauze, then tapes it all down securely.

"All done," he says with a sigh of relief. She blinks her eyes open and looks down, then back at him. "You should lie down, Lizzie." He stands up, groaning inwardly at the ache in his knees, and offers her a hand.

She takes it, yawning hugely, and he pulls her to her feet and leads her into his bedroom.

"Lie down," he says again, "I'm just going to get you some water and a couple of painkillers."

But when he comes back into the room, a glass of water in one hand, a bottle of acetaminophen in the other, she's curled up square in the middle of the bed, already fast asleep. _Well_ , he thinks wryly, _I'll have to wake her up soon enough — she can take them then_. He pulls a throw from the bottom of the bed up over her bare legs and tucks it around her middle before settling himself in the armchair in the corner of the room. He stretches his legs out in front of him and watches her sleep, letting her peaceful rest soothe his tired mind.

* * *

He doesn't sleep.

He spends two quiet hours watching over her — _you'd be so proud of her, Sam_ , he thinks, and knows that it's true and right.

She's marvelous, truly — strong and clever, quick thinking and fast-moving; beautiful and volatile, emotional and open. Somehow, despite the life of duality she lives, she stays so open to experiences, to people, to life — it astounds him. He can almost remember, when he's with her, what it felt like to welcome the things life has to offer.

When the alarm on his phone chimes quietly, he clicks it off and gets up to move to the side of the bed. He puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a gentle shake. "Lizzie," he says, not too loudly, "Lizzie, wake up, sweetheart."

She stirs a little, then curls more tightly into herself, a small frown forming on her forehead. He sighs, and shakes her again, a little more firmly this time.

"Come on, Lizzie, up you get," he insists briskly. "Let me see those eyes open, now."

This time she groans and blinks awake, glaring at him in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. "Reddington, you sadist," she croaks out, shoving his hand away. "What on earth could you possibly want?"

"You have a concussion," he reminds her. "You have to wake every couple of hours, to make sure you can, and to make sure you aren't any worse. How do you feel? Can you sit up?"

She grumbles about it, but pushes up to a half-sitting position, leaning against the headboard for support. The small effort drains the colour from her face, and leaves her gasping.

"My leg," she says faintly. "My leg is throbbing. And I'm dizzy… I don't…" she pauses, a vague and uncomfortable looks coming over her face. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Okay," he says, helping her shift to the edge of the bed. "It's okay, here," and he leans out to pull over the plastic wastebasket, thankfully empty. He gets it under her just in time for the first heave, and gathers her hair in one hand and rubs her back soothingly with the other as she vomits painfully.

"I'm sorry," she manages, when it's over. "I'm sorry, my head, I just…"

"It's perfectly natural with a head injury," he replies, helping her carefully ease back into bed. "Don't give it another thought. If it keeps happening, though, we'll have to go to the hospital."

"I'm okay," she says, leaning back with her eyes closed. "I'm… okay."

He gives her uninjured leg a comforting pat, then gets up and takes the wastebasket into the bathroom, emptying it into the toilet and rinsing it with hot water in the tub. He dampens a fresh washcloth with cold water, pours a bit of mouthwash into a glass, collects a small bowl and the clean wastebasket, and carries it all back into the bedroom.

She's still awake, which he thinks is a good sign, still propped up against the headboard and looking down at the pad on her leg.

"You gave me stitches," she says, as he approaches the bed and unloads onto the nightstand, dropping the wastebasket to the floor.

"Don't worry," he replies, trying to sound cheerful. "It's not my first time. They're nice and small, and shouldn't leave a scar, or only a little one."

"It's not that," she says quietly, picking at the tape absently — he pulls her hand away with an admonishing look. "It's… you… thank you," she continues, and looks up at him now, her tired eyes soft. "Just… thank you."

"It's my pleasure to care for you, sweetheart," he answers, a pleased smile lightening his features. "In fact, I'm still on the job."

He puts her hand down on the bed and takes up the washcloth he'd brought in, gently wiping her face clean, oddly gratified when she leans into his hand a little. He offers her the glass of mouthwash, which she gratefully accepts, and then holds out the small bowl for her to spit into.

"You think of everything, don't you," she sighs as she leans back again, eyes already drooping.

"Hang on, Lizzie," he says, hastily putting all the used items back onto the nightstand and picking up the pills and water he'd brought in earlier. He shakes two pills out of the bottle and holds them out to her. "Take these, it will ease the pain and help you sleep."

She swallows the medicine obediently and empties the glass of water gratefully. "You don't have to watch me every minute," she mumbles sleepily, curling under the sheets and the heavy blanket he prefers, this time. "You should get some rest, too."

"I don't want to leave you alone," he answers. "Don't worry, I don't need much sleep."

She cracks an eyelid to look at him, a sliver of blue that shines like a star. "It's a big bed," she says simply, reaching an arm behind herself to pat at the mattress. "Just lie down here, Redding… Red." She ends her sentence with a huge yawn, but watches him until he kicks off his shoes and slides across the bed to lie down beside her.

"It's only… sensi… sensible," she mutters, already slipping under as he shifts around carefully and rests his head on the pillow beside her.

He lays there on top of the covers, uncomfortably aware of just how good the warmth of her body feels next to him. He listens to her soft breathing lengthen and deepen into sleep; watches the curve of her shoulder rise and fall gently.

He thinks, all in all, that he is going to have a very long night.


	5. Issue 05: Origins

He lies beside her, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the look on her face when he found her by the woods, of her devastated fear that she had failed just by surviving. It worries him that she doesn't see how strong she really is.

She whimpers in her sleep, then, rousing him from his dark thoughts into concern. He turns his head to look at her, to make sure she's okay; she's still curled away from him, but she's starting to twitch and shiver under the heavy covers.

He sends tendrils of soothing warm affection her way, reaching out to stroke her hair and add physical comfort, as well as strengthen his connection to her. Seeking the comfort he's sending just as she would physical warmth, she rolls over, her face creased in a frown even in sleep, and curls into his side with her head snugged against his chest.

It happens so quickly, he can't move, or think; he can barely even breathe. He can feel her small hands digging in, gripping his shirt; feel her damp breath hot against his side. Her knees rub at his thigh, his hip; her foot scrapes at his leg through the blankets.

Seeking to calm, to soothe, his system restarts with a jolt; he finds himself able to wrap his arm around her, to place a kiss on top of her head, to murmur quiet shushing noises into her hair. It feels surreal, cradling her slight body as she sleeps, creating a refuge for them both that begins and ends with the halo of light from the bedside lamp.

He wonders, not for the first time, how many changes his appearance in her life will bring. While he regrets the necessity of change, he guiltily enjoys the feel of her and the comfort it brings him. He thinks if this is to be his new reality, he can adjust.

* * *

He wakes to the sound of her sobs.

Disoriented, he wonders how long he's been asleep, how he _could_ have fallen asleep. He needs to wake her regardless, he thinks; she's restless again, body twitching against him, her feet pushing her away while her hands tangle in his shirt to keep him close. He supposes that it's not surprising that she'd have nightmares after what she's been through.

He squeezes her gently with the arm that's still wrapped around her. "Lizzie, wake up, now," he calls, "Wake up, sweetheart, it's only a dream."

He hears her gasp and then sniffle as she chokes back her tears, and then she stops moving. He waits, hoping she won't be angry, not wanting to be the one to move away.

"Red?" she says, voice faintly muffled by his body. "Am I… the fire…?"

"No, Lizzie, you're safe with me," he rushes to reassure, blanketing her in comfort and safety. "The fire's over and done; Ressler and Malik have taken care of the cleanup, don't worry."

"No, Red," she answers, squirming a little now so that he lets her go. She struggles to sit, dizzy and aching all over, but she doesn't want to lean up on the headboard beside him — she needs to see his face, now, to read his expressions.

"How's your head?" he asks, concerned by the effort it takes her to muddle through sitting up. "Still dizzy? Sick?"

"I'm okay," she replies, voice thick with impatience — but she keeps a hand on his leg for balance and support. "It's not important now, Red, I was dreaming about the fire."

"That's not surprising, Lizzie, the trauma of…"

"No," she snaps, "Not this fire, the… other one. When I was a child. I… If you were so close to Sam, he must have told you about it. I had nightmares for years after he took me in."

"What about it?" he asks cautiously, fairly certain he's not going to like where this is headed. "I suppose it's also natural that recent events would disturb memories…"

"What did he tell you?" she cuts in again, eager now, her pain forgotten, her hand gripping his leg. "He would never explain it to me, he always said it didn't matter and I couldn't, I can't remember. Red, please?"

He shuts his eyes briefly — he's not ready to tell this story any more than she is ready to hear it. "Sam was your father, Lizzie," he says, striving for calm, even tones. "And he was right, it's not important."

But that's not what he should have said, not what he _would_ have said if he hadn't still been hazy with sleep. She pounces on his misstep like a jungle cat.

"So you _do_ know something about it," she cries, leaning toward him in avid excitement. "Please, Red, it's my past, _my_ story — and maybe my future, too. Whatever Sam told you… You're my only link, now, don't you see?"

He looks into her hopeful face, bandaged and scraped, flush with sleep — she trusts him, he realizes, to be honest with her, to help her. Because that's what he'd said he is there to do. _She might not be ready_ , he thinks sadly, _but when_ is _someone ready to hear the tangled tale of how they were made?_

"Sam didn't tell me anything about your early childhood, or that first, terrible fire," he says heavily, shifting to sit up straighter, to look her in the eyes.

"Oh, but Red," she says quickly, and he can tell she is struggling to hold back anger.

"He didn't tell me," Red repeats, cutting across her nervy protests. "I told him. I told Sam your story myself, Lizzie, when I took you to him that night."

* * *

She feels like she can't breathe. "Red, did you say… _you_ brought me to Sam? You were the one? Does that mean… did you know my mother? My birth parents? How I… how _this_ happened to me?"

The look of mingled hope and fear on her face makes his heart ache for her. He had known it would fall to him, one day, to tell Lizzie her own story, but that was before… Before she became a part of him. He felt as if she had seen the empty place in his heart, and had curled up in it and made it her own. He looked into her eyes, and he couldn't deny her — he can only hope that it won't break her, or the fragile trust that lies between them.

"Let me tell you a story," he starts, his voice deep and rich and heavy with memory, "About a young couple named Yuri and Katarina Rostova…"

* * *

Yuri and Katarina Rostova were KGB agents — not field agents, but scientists. After World War II, and right through the Cold War, all the big powers were delving into the sciences of the mind — although a lot of it bore more resemblance to magicks — America among them. Russia was no exception — everyone was drawn into the idea that there was more out there for humanity, that we were capable of using and manipulating the mind.

Although most of this type of research had been debunked and disbanded by the late seventies and early eighties, clandestine experimentation was still going on in select spots around the world. Yuri and Katarina were lead scientists at the Popov Laboratory for Bio-Research, sanctioned by the highest levels of Russian government to research parapsychology and psychic phenomena, particularly telepathy.

With a small and select team of brilliant minds at their disposal, the Rostovas conducted over ten thousand experiments on ordinary citizens, searching for signs of extrasensory abilities — clairvoyants, telepaths, pyrokinetics, remote viewers, distance healers — anything and everything they could think of. They met with limited success, mostly in telepathy.

Yuri, in particular, became obsessed with discovering genetic origins of mental abilities. He began to experiment in stimulating these powers in an "ungifted" person — in creating telepathic ability. He eventually produced a serum that he believed would induce telepathy, but it was impossible to test on anything but human beings. He couldn't get permission to begin human testing — you can see where that might have caused concern. Questions began to be asked about his running of the lab, about the types of experiments that he and Katarina were running.

Desperate to save his lab, his job, and possible the lives of himself and his wife, Yuri did what he thought he must to prove his theories — and his sanity. He injected Katarina with the serum. What neither of them knew was that she was already pregnant.

* * *

Katarina did, in fact, develop low-level psychic ability — she was able to discern not the exact thoughts of others, but the general tenor, the direction of those thoughts, and transmit her own. She could influence the thoughts of another; change their intent, their decisions. Not true telepathy, but enough to get the government off Yuri's back, and allow the lab to continue its work.

I believe that the first cracks in their relationship began when they discovered Katarina's pregnancy. Katarina was, naturally, horrified by what they had, unwittingly, done, and terrified at what it might mean for the child. Yuri, although concerned about the potential outcomes, was thrilled. Would the baby be a true telepath? Just imagine what it could mean for the future of their research!

But when the child was born, it seemed that both Katarina's fears and Yuri's hopes would come to nothing. The baby, a little girl, seemed completely normal. The only possible exceptionality was her extremely calm and quiet nature. Katarina named her Mariya, but they called her Masha.

Masha was three years old when the fires started.

* * *

Masha had done something wrong — I honestly can't remember all the details — and Katarina had sent the child to her room. Only minutes passed before Masha's screams brought her mother running — her hand was alight with flames. It took several minutes for Katarina to realize that Masha was unharmed, burning but not burnt. It was an easy leap to the truth for someone of her background — the serum had not given Masha telepathy, it had made her pyrokinetic.

It took a much longer time to calm Masha sufficiently to douse the flame — water, along with other typical means, as you know, was completely ineffective. When the child at last fell asleep, Katarina went straight to Yuri, assuming that he would share her concern, and needing his help to decide what to do for their daughter. Unfortunately, Yuri, rather than being concerned, was elated.

The serum had succeeded beyond what they had thought — beyond even Yuri's wildest expectations. The very next day, he began testing his daughter — how to stimulate the fire, how to stop it. How far reaching it was, whether she could cause a fire without first lighting her hand. Was it only her hand that would light, or other parts of her as well? It was Yuri that first caused Masha's entire body to light up in flame, and that was the moment that broke Katarina.

* * *

Katarina sought the help of the CIA — she defected, and took Masha with her. It was a bold and risky move; it was the only thing she could think to do to save her child's life, to give her anything even remotely resembling a regular childhood.

I was the agent assigned to Katarina's debriefing; I had been working in counter-intelligence for some time when the two Rostovas arrived on American soil. I worked with Katarina for almost six months before Yuri caught up with her. I still don't know who the leak was that led him to the safe house; and I have looked, Lizzie, I swear to you I have never stopped looking.

That night… I wasn't there. She called me at home, in a blind panic; Yuri was in the house and she was terrified for Masha. Katarina was a brilliant woman, but she had never done field work, had never fired the gun I gave her except in training. But she fought him; she fought for her child. The gun was dropped in the struggle, and Masha… Masha picked it up. Frightened, she must have been so frightened — her father was a much-feared figure, and he was trying to harm her mother… she shot him.

* * *

The shooting was too much for her, only four years old; the emotional overload brought out the flame, and the house went up. I had just turned onto the street; I could smell the smoke… the front door blew out just as I pulled to the curb. I don't think I've ever run that fast, before or since… The fire was everywhere, I could barely see, and it was hot, much hotter than it should have been — I knew what had happened.

I had to go in, I had to check — from what Katarina had told me, I was sure Masha was still safe, that the fire couldn't harm her. Katarina and Yuri were both dead in the front room, which was nearly completely in flames; I was too late. I've never stopped regretting being too late for Katarina. I found Masha in her bedroom closet, crying but unharmed, and her own flame gone — it's lucky that house was only one floor, or I would never have made it.

I put her on my back to carry her out; I needed my hands, to cover my face, to move debris, to try and keep us safe. When we passed the through the front room… it was my fault, I didn't think, I… When she saw them, when she saw her parents, she just… she flared up like a torch. It was all I could do to get us out of the house.

That was when I first realized the real strength of my own… ability. Realized that I was more than just a charismatic smooth-talker. That I could project emotions, use them to influence others, change their moods; even alter their actions. I was able to calm Masha enough to help her extinguish the flame. She and Katarina had managed to give her some control — strong emotions brought the flame; quiet and calm could banish it. I didn't want her in the hands of the CIA, of the government — they would have been no kinder to her than Yuri and the Russians.

I put her in my car and we just… drove away. I knew what to do — Sam and I had been friends since my youngest days in the Navy. He had also moved on to work in the CIA, but not in intelligence. In one of life's more fortuitous coincidences, Sam had been working in the Office of Technical Services — the cover for America's research into parapsychology.

He was just what I needed — an expert in extrasensory abilities, at least somewhat versed in espionage and clandestine activities, recently retired from active service, and the biggest heart I've ever had the fortune to know. He didn't blink twice at taking Masha right into that big heart — it was Sam that chose the name, Elizabeth; it was Sam who gave Masha her first real home. He loved you, Lizzie, almost from that first moment, and you him. He dedicated his life to helping you learn to manage the flame, and protect yourself.

* * *

He stops, voice hoarse and tired, empty of words at last. He'd told her much more than he'd intended to, maybe ever, it was just… once he'd started talking, he couldn't stop. She's so pale, sitting beside him on the bed, hugging her knees in a mirror image of herself earlier that night. He'd wondered why she hadn't interrupted, hadn't peppered him with questions. She doesn't seem angry or upset or… anything, he's not getting anything from her at all.

Truly alarmed, he reaches out and squeezes her hand gently.

She looks up at him, her eyes dark and hollow, her face empty and resigned. "I was right," she says quietly. "I _am_ a monster. I murdered my own parents. And you… Red…"

"No, Lizzie, that's not…"

"Let me see," she says, ignoring him completely. "Take off your shirt."

He blinks in surprise, and looks more closely into her face. "No, Lizzie, there's no point in dwelling on…"

"Take," she interrupts fiercely, "Off your shirt."

She rises to her knees and leans forward to fumble at his buttons; he can't let her do it, it's just too much. He takes her shaking hands in his firmly, and now, _now_ , he can feel her pain, a deep well of anguish that staggers him.

He sighs. "I don't think it will help anything," he says unhappily. "But if you must." He puts her hands back onto her knees, then unbuttons and strips off his shirt.

They stare at each other for a moment; she's a little startled by the firm muscle apparent under the softer skin of his chest and stomach; by the fine texture of his gold-and-grey body hair. But the next thing she sees is the scar tissue on the top of his left shoulder.

"Turn around, Red." Soft, but determined.

Uneasy, he shifts around her to the edge of the bed; swings his legs down to sit with his back to her. He hears the expected intake of breath — he knows it's a horror show back there, though it's been a long time since he's looked at it.

She doesn't say anything.

"Lizzie, it's not…"

"Hush," she says absently. Then he feels the feather-light touch of her fingers tracing the patterns across his back and he shivers involuntarily, draws a shuddering breath, closes his eyes.

"You are _not_ a monster, sweetheart," he rumbles. "You are an innocent victim in all this, Lizzie, as much as anyone else, _more_ than anyone else. Yuri Rostova was a blind and reckless fool, for all his brilliance. He created you, unwittingly maybe, but certainly heedlessly. He experimented on you like a lab rat and hunted you and your mother like animals. Any negative consequences of those actions must be laid squarely at his feet, Lizzie, his and no one else's. Certainly not those of an innocent child."

And now he feels sorrow and relief (and… could it be… tenderness?) emanating from her. The air is heavily sweet with her feelings, a poignant taste in his mouth. Her palms come to rest flat against his shoulder blades and her forehead presses into the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, Red," she murmurs. "So sorry that I hurt you."

"You were just a child." The feel of her skin against his is intoxicating; he can't help but savour it. "Terrified, alone, confused. You had no control, then. You and Sam accomplished amazing things."

"Sam… he saved my life," she says, her breath misting over his back. Then she moves a little, shifting so she's beside him again, legs curled beneath her, so she can look at him. "And I guess I have you to thank for _that_ , too."

He looks over at her and smiles, a touch grimly. "Sam saved the child," he replies. "Helped you control the uncontrollable, manage the terrible burden placed within your innocent self. I'm here… I'm here to save the woman. It's time to stop fighting the fire, Lizzie, stop suppressing it, stop fearing your own emotions, your own strength. It's time to start using this gift you've been given."

She gapes at him, her head still pounding with its concussion, shoulder aching from the ministrations of the Stewmaker, leg burning where it's stitched together, not quite believing what she's just heard.

"Red… control is all I have," she manages. "If I don't… it will destroy everything in its path."

"No," he answers simply, taking her hand in comfort. "You have control, and it's as admirable as it is useful. Now you need to accept the fire for what it is — it's not the enemy, Lizzie, it's a part of you. And you will need it, and need it soon, because they're hunting you now, sweetheart, and they won't stop until they've found you."


	6. Issue 06: Sparks

He watches her sleep, curled up again, frowning and fierce as if she would keep arguing with him even in unconsciousness. For someone who keeps such a tight rein on herself, he muses, her anger is always quick to burn, leaping to the surface, electric. Her agitated frustration at his refusal to talk any further about the forces ranged against her until she'd had some rest had been forceful, determined; so strong even though she was weakened by pain. He'd had to use his abilities to soothe her to sleep — she will be angry again, he supposes, in the morning.

She is absolutely beautiful, he thinks wistfully — at rest in deceptive fragility; in movement, fluid as her own flame; effused with emotion, her porcelain skin warming until it bloomed. Whether she can admit it or not, she needs rest, needs to regain strength in order to face the treacheries of the past and the facts of the present, so she can become even stronger.

He runs a hand softly over her hair and down the curve of her spine, over and over, to quiet both his mind and her rest. He watches in fascination as her frown eases away slowly, as her hands loosen and her body relaxes under his touch. It occurs to him to wonder, for the first time, how lonely she must be; to wonder how long it might have been since she has allowed herself the comfort of another's touch.

* * *

When she wakes again, it is morning, a sliver of light slipping under the still-closed blinds to welcome her. She's alone, but the blankets beside her are warm enough that she knows he kept his promise to stay with her, to watch over her. She feels a pleased glow inside her at the knowledge.

She rolls onto her back and stretches out her aching limbs — it has been long enough since she allowed the flame to take her that she had forgotten the pulsing soreness it leaves behind. She feels like she has been shaken and tumbled about like a lone sock in a clothes dryer. On top of that, her head still throbs dully, in time with her heartbeat; her shoulder tingles unpleasantly; and her leg burns and itches in turn.

She kicks off the covers, sitting up and letting her left knee bend and fall to the side, looking down at the neat square of gauze and tape with some trepidation. She's just reaching to pick at it when the door opens and his footsteps sound, accompanied by the absolutely wondrous scent of fresh coffee.

"Good morning, Lizzie."

His cheerful voice has her snatching back her hand and looking up to smile at him guiltily. He's carrying two brightly coloured mugs and has a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. As she meets his gaze, he raises an eyebrow, looking at her with a wry smile of his own.

"Why don't you let me do that?" he suggests mildly.

He puts the mugs and the paper down on the nightstand and walks past the bed to the bathroom. She hears the rush of the taps as he washes his hands, then he comes back out with the kit she remembers from the night before.

He sits down on the bed beside her and puts a hand down on her upper thigh; she's a little surprised by the warmth that pools in the spot, as if summoned by his touch. He gently loosens a corner of the tape, then tears the whole bandage away in one smooth yank; she lets out a startled yelp.

"Don't be a baby," he murmurs, absently knocking her hand away as she instinctively reaches out; but sending her a little mental stroke of comfort at the same time. He gently pats the wound with a warm, damp cloth and tests the skin carefully.

"It looks good," he decides, flashing her a quick smile. "Hold still, and I'll patch you back up."

She watches his face rather than his hands as he works, his intent expression fascinating to her. _He cares about me_ , she thinks, then wonders if the care is for the child he knew, or the person that she is. It's both strange and somehow comforting that he has so quickly become a steady presence in her life, someone she can count on, someone who is there for her.

"Lizzie," he says, smoothing down the last of the tape and then squeezing her hand. "I want you to stay with me. The man who is tracking you now, I believe he is close to finding you, too close. You're not safe on your own anymore."

"Red… that's… I mean it's nice to have someone worry about me again. But don't you think that's an overreaction? Or isn't it? You still haven't told me what you know about this man, or how dangerous the situation really is. I know my apartment might not seem like much to you, but it's… my place. And I _am_ safe there, maybe _only_ there. Some of my things…"

"Things, Lizzie, are ever and easily replaceable," he interrupts, matter-of-factly, neatly sidestepping her pointed request for information. "And we certainly have time enough to go and collect anything that you really need."

She shifts uncomfortably, suddenly oddly aware she's sitting there in nothing but her underwear. "It's not just a few mementos, Red, it's _everything_. Sam and I, we… it's _my place_ , don't you understand? It's my clothes, the sheets, towels, the mattress, hell, even the walls and the floors! It's all special, not _to_ me, _for_ me, it's all… you know," she pauses, suddenly awkward. "Resistant." She lowers her eyes, embarrassed.

"Lizzie," he starts, then pauses himself, unsure what to say, why she's withdrawing. He lifts her chin with his free hand, needing to see her face, gauge her emotions.

"Lizzie," he says again. "Do you think it bothers me, what you can do? That I would somehow think less of you for doing whatever you had to do to keep yourself safe?"

"It's just… it's embarrassing!" she cries. "I have to wear these clothes made of Nomax, everything's always black; everything I have has to be fire-resistant, _everything_. In case I lose control. I've been pretty good, the last year or so, I really have, but I can't take chances. And if the dreams are coming back…"

He slides his hand up to cup her cheek, floods her with warm affection. "Did you think I didn't already know these things, sweetheart? That it wasn't all so much more important when you were a child, still learning control? You should be proud, Lizzie, not embarrassed, proud of all you've managed to accomplish, of the strength you have."

She manages a tremulous smile. His words ease the knot of tension inside her, just as much as the calm he sends her. "I… it's hard to see it that way, I guess. I'm still so tired, and I'm frightened, and everything hurts, and I just… I just need to go home."

He sighs, reading her, resigned. "I don't like it," he says, frowning. "But I do understand. I'll be moving today. I'll text you the address later. If you want to shower and get dressed, Dembe will take you home."

She offers him a much better smile. "And I'm sure you'll have a new villain for us to chase soon."

* * *

Three days later, Red sits in the living room of one of his favourite safe houses, sipping tea and taking a few moments to relax. Grey's voice comes from behind him.

"Your sources were correct, sir. The Iranian is attempting to procure a high-level intelligence package. We believe it could lead to the answer you seek."

"Have it intercepted," he replies.

"That may prove… difficult. The seller hired the Courier to make the exchange. The last time we attempted to intercept him…"

"I'm well aware," he interjects smoothly, "Of the men and resources we lost in Cairo. Perhaps this is an opportunity to let our new… friends at the FBI carry the water."

* * *

She sits at her desk, reviewing the reports on the Stewmaker. It's her first day back after her few sick days; it's been very quiet since she arrived an hour ago. There's a tap on the door jamb; Ressler ambles in to lean on the edge of her desk.

"I'd think that was the last thing you'd want to read up on," he says. "After everything that happened — the… explosion and everything. Did it really happen the way Reddington said?"

She's glad she made reading the reports her first priority, despite the discomfort they'd caused. "Yes," she says coolly. "Reddington came in just as Kornish was about to finish me; they fought, chemicals were knocked over — I guess they were pretty volatile. We were lucky to get out of there with our lives."

"And you didn't think you should wait for the rest of us before you took off?"

"I'm pretty sure Reddington explained that, too," she snaps, "But I'll confirm that I got hit with a lot of shrapnel during the explosion. In addition to the concussion I already had, my leg was bleeding pretty badly; I needed immediate medical attention and Reddington got it for me. I wasn't fleeing the scene, Ressler, I was just trying to stay alive."

"All right, keep your shirt on, Milhoan," he drawls, an edge of sarcasm in his tone. "Just checking. I guess I didn't know that you and Reddington were so… close."

She rolls her eyes, and is about to give a cutting reply when her phone buzzes cheerfully, signaling an incoming text. Glancing at it, she smiles.

"Speak of the devil," she says wryly. "Gotta go, Ressler."

* * *

She swings into the large, cluttered room, coming to a halt beside a fusty armchair, staring around in horrified wonder.

"What _is_ this place?"

"Something of a hideaway," he answers dreamily. "It used to be home to one of the finest American writers who ever lived… Frederick Hemstead."

"Never heard of him," she says absently. "Red… _this_ is where you wanted me to come and stay? This is… all this _paper_ , it's… it's just a giant tinderbox!"

He grins at her, completely unapologetic. "It's also a great place to practice and refine control and finesse, don't you think?"

"You're insane," she replies flatly. "This whole house would incinerate in seconds."

He laughs, sending her waves of cheery goodwill. "It must be your positive outlook, Lizzie, that enables you to get through the difficult days. Come on, sit down and have a drink with me."

She drops into the couch beside him with a resigned sigh. "It's ten-thirty in the morning, Red. What _is_ that?"

"No earthly idea," he answers, taking a swig with a throat-clearing cough. "Some sort of distilled alcohol, I think. There's bottles of the stuff stashed everywhere. Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?"

She rolls her eyes at him impatiently. "Why am I here, Red?"

"We need something that somebody else has," he says simply. "And to get it, we need to find the Courier."

* * *

And they're moving again, always rushing, always running. It astounds her, the speed at which everything in this new life of hers seems to move, a relentless freight train that she cannot escape.

The still-healing stitches on her leg burn as she runs through the farmer's market, as she throws herself into the commandeered truck beside Malik.

Her head pounds and rings unforgivingly as she staggers away from the wrecked truck; as she wonders just how many impacts her skull can handle before some kind of damage is inevitable.

The Courier, caught at last, isn't a monster like Zamani, like Kornish, but instead is just a broken, unhappy man. Viciously cruel, maybe, like a dog who's been kicked too many times, but just a man. Which means that she can find the key to him, she knows she can — when she finds the old sepia photograph in his apartment, she knows she has, if she can only figure out the right way to turn it.

Time passes in a blur of frustrating stops and starts and dead ends, and Seth Nelson, she thinks, is running out of it. Gambit after gambit fails, and it's Red, finally, who gets them what they need from Laurence Dechambou.

"I'll make her talk," he assures them, no hesitation or doubt in his voice at all.

"How?" she asks, voice professionally skeptical, though inside, something dark uncurls.

"You don't want me to answer that."

And she doesn't, not at all, and the anger and resentment she's feeling is both surprising and unwelcome. He raises an eyebrow at her, and sends her a little soothing pat of warm affection.

_You don't_ own _him_ , she tells herself furiously as he turns away, still wearing that enigmatic smile. _You're barely even friends_. It's ridiculous… to want to stop him as he strides out of the Post Office, or to follow him, to keep him beside her as much as to keep him safe.

When did he become her new anchor? And why, instead of making her feel safer, more sure in the world, does it make her shaky, unsteady on her feet as if she's walking down the aisle of a moving train?

But he's back soon enough, unchanged, unreadable, and they're working together, side by side. She loves their quick give-and-take, the way he makes her see things differently, think faster, use her knowledge and abilities in ways she has actually trained for.

And they find Seth Nelson. Together, they dig him out of the dirt and save his life — she thinks Dembe might have broken a rib, doing compressions, but Seth doesn't seem the type to hold a grudge.

She sees Red whispering in the kid's ear, and intervenes smoothly, reassuring Seth with news of his parents and promises of safety.

"Red," she starts, exasperated, as the ambulance pulls away, wondering what his angle is, wondering why, really, they did all this.

"Everything has its own purpose, Lizzie," he says quietly. "Come back to the house when you're done at the Post Office and we'll talk."

* * *

Again he sits in the dusty room, Grey behind him, ever watchful, ever attentive, and they both gaze out the window as if the horizon holds all the answers they seek.

"This man, the young NSA agent." Grey speaks suddenly into the silence, as if it's against his better judgement but he can't quite stop himself. "He allowed you access to the classified networks?"

"He did," Red smiles inwardly, willing to be questioned, for now.

"And I understand this was a one-time offer?"

"Yes." Cool, calm, waiting.

"The right question, and we could have made the world tremble!" Grey bursts out. "Had it all, everything we've ever wanted! Why did you waste it on the girl?"

"Not 'wasted', my friend," he says, on a sigh. "Circumstances are far more complex than we ever imagined. I'm betting on the long game… the future."

"Your future's arriving now," Grey answers, sullen resignation tinging his tone, turning and leaving the room as a car door slams outside.

Red leans forward, pours another jam jar of Frederick's mystery moonshine, and waits — she's later than he expected, and he's been worried.

She walks in slowly, a passive sort of exhaustion painted over her features, dragging down the usually graceful lines of her. Sadness emanates from her like a cloud, enveloping him and exacerbating his concerns. She's carrying a small-ish duffle bag in one hand, and tear tracks stain her cheeks.

He holds out the glass jar; she reaches out to take it, her fingers wrapping warmly around his for a precious moment. She sits at the opposite end of the sofa with a sigh. He's not sure what has happened, why she isn't grilling him, where she has been — but with her beside him, safe, he can wait. He sends her what sympathy he can, and looks out the window again.

"Funny," he murmurs, almost to himself. "All these wonderful manuscripts, and my favourite thing about this place is still the view from this sofa. I love how the light breaks through the trees." He gestures at the window, admiring the setting sun.

"You were right," she replies, equally quietly. "Someone _is_ tracking me. When I got home… I think, no, I _know_ , someone had been there. My home, it's… it's not safe anymore."

He turns back to her quickly, a frisson of alarm shooting through him at the implications of her words. "Lizzie, are you all right?" he demands. "Was there anyone…"

She can feel his panic reaching out to ice through her, and rushes to reassure him. "No, no, it's okay. No one was there, everything seemed okay. I was just… I just knew. A few of my things weren't quite where I'd left them, the air was… different? It's like you said. It's just a place, and it's not safe anymore.

"Don't worry, I don't think anyone could have followed me here. I left my building out the back, took a cab to a hotel downtown — that's what took me so long, I had to wait a bit after I checked in so it didn't seem odd or stand out, then I called a car service…"

"Don't worry about that now, sweetheart," he says, proud of her all the same. He reaches out to take her hand, to share comfort. "I'm just glad you're safe. I'm sorry about the apartment; I know it was important to you. Is this _all_ you brought with you, though?"

She shrugs. "I don't need a lot, really. My clothes are all the same anyway. But… I brought sheets and a couple of towels. If it's okay. For, you know… safety."

He smiles fondly, her awkward shyness allowing him to settle, to take control again. "I'm not worried," he says warmly, "But if those things make you feel better, by all means. I'm just glad you're safe and here, with me."

She flushes a little with pleasure; takes a sip of her drink and chokes over it. "God, Red," she sputters. "This is appalling!"

He laughs, richly. "Isn't it just? Takes the edge off, though."

She rolls her eyes a little at that, then shrugs again, toasts him, and takes another sip.

"Did you get what you needed?" she asks, leaning back into the sofa. "From Seth?"

"Ah," he says, a little disappointed, but also gratified that she refuses to become complacent. "I did, as a matter of fact." He leans over and picks a slim folder off the table. "It's not a lot of information, but it's more than we had. And it's a name — at least for this particular blackguard. The man currently hunting you, who was in your apartment," and she feels a wave of cold rage roll off him. "His name is Nikolai Volkov."

"Russian," she says thoughtfully. "Is all this related to my parents?"

"Very good, Lizzie," he returns approvingly. "Nikolai Volkov is an FSB agent, but not officially. He's working for a _very_ unofficial branch of the agency still exploring the paranormal. They want your father's research, they want to know what he knew, and they've decided they need to get it from you."

She shivers involuntarily. "But I don't know anything," she says, puzzled. "And didn't you tell me… wasn't there an entire government laboratory? His research, I mean… I wasn't the only… subject."

"In a tragic, yet ironic, coincidence, the Popov laboratory and all it's associated paperwork and data burned to the ground, not long after your parents died," he says coolly, with a grim smile.

She looks at him carefully, evaluating. "Coincidence, Red?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "It seemed fitting. And I had hoped it would… discourage their interest. But I suppose all it did was make the game more difficult. And more attractive."

"Red, I…" She doesn't know how to properly formulate words for what she's thinking. Her head is aching again.

He smiles at her; touches her cheek. "You should get some sleep," he says quietly. "We'll start work tomorrow."

* * *

She hadn't been entirely sure what he'd meant, in her overloaded state. Apparently, uncharacteristically, he'd meant exactly what he'd said: work. On her.

After feeding her a ridiculously huge breakfast, hovering over her until she's stuffed to the gills and ready to throttle him, he takes her outside. And starts trying to rebuild her.

"Just your hand, Lizzie, like a torch," he says, his voice confident, almost eager. "I know you can do it if you focus."

She sighs. "It doesn't work that way, Red."

"It _hasn't_ worked that way," he returns. "But I believe it can, if you want it to, if you can shift your mindset. The fire inside, it isn't your enemy Lizzie. Not a foreign entity or a parasite occupying your mind and body against your will. It's a part of you, it's genetic, just as much as your arm, your leg… your smile."

"Red," she says again, frustrated before she's even begun.

"Don't start off that way," he warns cheerfully. "It's all in the attitude, sweetheart. Just try." He bolsters his words with shot of his own cavalier confidence.

Wanting to please him, and curious too, she does.

Again and again and again.

Until her body aches from the flame like she's been hit by a truck. Until the two of them are standing in a circle of burnt ground the size of a small car. Until the light is getting long in the yard and his voice is worn from his constant instruction, encouragement, and story after story. The only reason she hasn't been reduced to absolutely howling in frustration is Red, his consistent reassurance, affection, faith — both spoken and psychic.

"You're still fighting it," he says, sounding as tired as she feels. "You're still trying to smother it."

"It's the only way!" she cries, her fists clenched. "If I let go, even a little, I burn! You've seen it now, over and over…"

"Shhh," he soothes, stroking her hair to strengthen the comfort he blankets her in. "Just let it be, sweetheart. Let it rest. You don't think about moving your fingers when you scratch an itch, when you pick up a file folder — you just do it. The flame is no different. Let your instincts work for you."

She sighs. He's been saying the same things all day, but she's so tired.

"Close your eyes," he suggests, giving her all his remaining quiet, all the peace and solace he can muster. "And keep them closed this time. Just breathe, in and out, quiet. And I'll tell you a story."

She nods — she'll try one last time, for him — rolls her shoulders; closes her eyes; breathes deep. And lets his voice flow over her, warm, deep, rich like chocolate or coffee, low and hypnotic. He's telling her the sunset, painting the vivid colour, the texture the light makes through the trees, the heat and fire of its beauty. His mind keeps her calm and easy, and the tension inside her slowly starts to unwind. Her hands unclench and she thinks she can see with her eyes closed, he words are so eloquent. Warmth floods her, but she can't panic under the heavy weight of his tranquility.

"Lizzie," he says softly, making it a part of the story he tells. "Open your eyes."

What she sees is her hand raised between them, slightly cupped with her palm upwards, full of flame that burns quiet and steady.

She stares at it in wonder, turning her hand back and forth slowly. _It's beautiful_ , she thinks, surprised, and looks up to smile at him just as the fire flutters away.

He's already smiling back at her, his face full of pride, and between his flowing happiness and her own pleased joy, she's buoyant with a euphoria she cannot contain.

She laughs happily, and without thinking about it, bouncing eagerly on her toes, she jumps at him, throwing her arms around his neck, "I did it, Red! We did it… together…" Her voice fades away as her body comes flush with his and she's hit with a pulse of something from him that she doesn't recognize, that she has no name for. It's so… warm, almost… possessive… it curls into her like smoke, heating her in a way wholly different from the flame, in a way that is new and unfamiliar and tantalizing.

Her head pulls back, tilts like a deer, wary and alert. She's curious, wants to see him; but keeps her hands wrapped around his neck, not wanting to lose this fascinating new feeling. The look on his face is new, too, he looks… like he wants something, but she can't figure out what it might be.

"Red?" she says hesitatingly, and shock flickers over his face and the heat disappears with a yank. "What is it?" she asks, confused. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, sweetheart," he reassures, but his voice is hoarse and strained. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to… you surprised me." He rests his forehead against hers, running his hands up and down her arms. "I knew you could do it."

She shifts her head a little, trying to see into his eyes, and she moves a hand to caress his cheek. The heat comes back in a rush, and it's intoxicating, and she holds her breath, waits. He draws a shaky breath, and everything is so warm and soft and something is singing inside her.

He shudders against her once, all over, and then his hands are gripping her waist, and his mouth is on hers, kissing her, he's kissing her, and she's dizzy and lost, and their lips are moving together like they have always known how. His tongue is tracing her lips, making them tingle; she opens to him, instinctively, and everything is a little faster now, a little harder. Something hot and hard is uncurling in her belly, but it's not the flame, it's new and strange, and it makes her tremble and press closer to him.

He hums a little into her mouth in approval; slides his hands under the hem of her shirt to rub against the bare skin of her back.

And it's like a bucket of ice water to the face — his hands are cool against her skin, too cool, her skin hot, too hot, and now that she focuses on it, she can feel the familiar horrible prickling rushing along her nerves after all, and she jerks away from him and out of his arms with a strangled gasp.

Her panic slaps at him so hard it almost frightens him; the horrified, haunted look on her flushed face _does_ frighten him. He reaches for her, needing to comfort, to reassure, but she steps back.

"I'm sorry," she chokes, unable to meet his eyes, to explain. Tears run unnoticed down her face. "I just… I can't… I can't." And she turns and runs, more like a deer than ever, runs away from him back into the house, leaving him standing in the circle of scorched earth with his hand still outstretched, longing, confused, alone.


	7. Issue 07: Kindling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's bit shorter than the last few, but it was either break it off at a good spot, or let it go on so epically long that it would stop making any kind of sense. Hopefully, it just makes you all keen for more;)

He sits heavily on the sofa, pouring himself a healthy dose of mystery moonshine to brood over. Yet somehow, the view out the window has lost its charm. He rubs his hands roughly over his face and head, shame, disappointment, and regret battling it out at the forefront of his mind. (The back of his mind is still occupied with Lizzie; the wonder of her; her sweet, hot taste.)

To have lost control of his ability like that, as if he were no more than a stripling, is bad enough. But to have his carefully hidden away desires reveal themselves in a blast of lust… And then he acted on it. He thinks he might not be able to bear it. If he has driven her away, his long-nurtured Lizzie — who is, among the many other things she represents, a troubled young woman who needs his help — he will not be able to forgive himself.

When she comes downstairs, he'll apologize, he'll make it right. If he is truly going to help her, he has to find a way to repair the tenuous trust they'd built between them.

* * *

And so he sits, leaning back, drinking steadily, watching the light fade away to an inky darkness that matches his mood. He is so lost in the bleak cycle of his thoughts that doesn't hear her soft footsteps approaching, or the creaks of the aged floorboards. He becomes aware of her only when she's standing by his knee, softly calling to him.

"Red?" Soft and hesitant; she's not certain of her reception after the way she acted. "Are you… Can… Can we talk?"

He looks slowly up at her face — she's flushed again, or still, and is carefully avoiding making eye contact with him. It's worse than he thought.

"Of course, Lizzie," he says evenly, keeping a tight rein on himself. "Sit down and have a drink." He pours her a generous belt of hooch and shifts himself into an angle in the corner of the sofa so they can face each other; waits until she curls up beside him to hand her the glass jar.

She takes a gulp straightaway, for courage; she never imagined she would have to tell this story to anyone, let alone to him. He smiles ruefully at the sight, and steels himself to shut down the corner of his psyche that longs to reach out and touch her.

"I'm so very sorry," he starts, pouring his sincerity into his words, into the air between them. "To have lost control like that, I can't even begin to…"

He trails off as she grasps his arm, sputtering a little over her hastily swallowed mouthful.

"Red, _no_ ," she says urgently. "It's _me_ that needs to apologize, running off like that, it was inexcusable."

"I was out of line," he answers, staring down into his cloudy jar as if the right, graceful words could be found there. "I should never have touched you that way, broken your trust, I…"

" _No_ ," she interrupts again, her voice heavy with regret and her eyes glistening. "Please don't think that way. I didn't mean for you to think… it wasn't that I don't… it… it was like magic or music, kissing you."

She stops before she makes an idiot out of herself, shy now and trying to find a balance between keeping the necessary distance and reassuring him.

He looks at her again, at the top of her dark head as she takes her turn staring into her drink, at the lovely curve of her neck and back, and feels a small tendril of hope sprout deep within.

"Have I not ruined things, then?" he asks softly, seeking surety.

She does meet his eyes then, needing to show him her sincerity and relief.

"If you'll agree that I haven't either," she offers, with the bare beginning of a small smile.

"Never," he avows firmly, warmth and affection back in his face and voice. "But if it wasn't… I mean…" He's not sure what to say; he doesn't want to put words in her mouth, wants to know what she is really thinking about.

"It's just…" she gives a huge, shuddering sigh, looking abjectly miserable again, and his heart aches.

He reaches out to her, wanting — no, _needing_ to offer comfort, but she shies away, wincing as she does so. Her eyes plead for understanding and he lets his arms drop, gripping his hurt inside so it won't touch her. She takes a deep breath and meets his again, ready — as ready as she can be.

"I don't know how much you know about my… ability," she says, her voice somehow soft and bitter at the same time. "But it's triggered by strong emotion — anger, fear, pain. As a child, it was always negative emotions that caused the fire to lash out — it's why Sam focused so heavily on meditation, staying calm and channeling anger and frustration into more positive things.

"It never occurred to me — to either of us — that some positive emotions might be strong enough, vital enough to trigger it as well. Puberty was… a difficult time."

He moves a little, opening his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head at him, her eyes pleading for patience.

"Please," she says quietly, "I just need to get it out."

He nods; he understands how words and memories can burn inside, can tangle and hurt. He wants to take her hand; he doesn't.

"It took three years to get to a safe place again," she continues, picking absently at a loose thread in her flannel pajama pants. "But by junior year, I was actually doing really well. I even had some friends. And then… well. There was a boy."

He smiles at her; he can't help it. _There was_ a _boy_ , he thinks, amused. _Ridiculous girl_. He's sure for the single male she'd noticed, at least ten others had been dying for even a look from her.

"He was… persistent, Frank," she continues. "He was cute and smart, even though he didn't care about school. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't… well. We dated for a while, and we had a lot of fun. We got close, inseparable really, but then… I mean. That first kiss," she rubs her fingertips over her lips absently, lost in memory. "It was so lovely. He was so lovely. It was the kind of thing teenaged girls dream about. I just adored him."

She looks straight into his eyes, now, needing to be sure he understands. Tears are already flowing, but she takes no notice.

"It couldn't last, of course, because I'm not normal, am I? One day, we were… well, I'm sure you can imagine. Things started to get… and it happened."

"Lizzie," he starts, thinking she can't possibly mean what he thinks she might.

"Oh yes," she answers, bitter anger darkening her face. "I'm the monster here, Red. I loved him, with all my foolish young heart, I _loved_ him, and I nearly killed him. Sam, he tried to help me, but I knew he was mostly relieved that I was safe, that Frank couldn't remember what had happened. The burns on his face, on his back…"

She can't go on, she's sobbing now, lost in herself, and he can't stand it.

"Oh, sweetheart." He draws her into his arms; she folds into him, to unhappy to protest.

He rubs soothing circles on her back, wrapping her in his own calm acceptance and affection, resting his cheek against her head. For just a few brief moments, she lets herself curl into him, lets herself rub her hot, damp face into his neck and feel the soothing warmth of him seep into her.

And then she steels herself and pushes away, shrugging out of his arms and letting the cold take hold of her. She wipes her face on her sleeve and shrugs at him; her sadness and despair knife right through him.

"Anger, fear, pain… d-desire, arousal," she says, looking away. "All the strongest emotions, negative or positive. It happened half my lifetime ago, but apparently that wasn't long enough. I'm sorry, Red. I shouldn't have let myself forget, even for an instant, that there are some things that I can never have."

And she turns away; she can't bear the sympathy in his eyes, the shared sorrow heavy in the lines of his face, the droop of his shoulders.

"It must have been absolutely terrible for you," he says, wishing he could take the memory from her, wishing he could erase the look on her face. "But now… I…" He isn't sure how to say what he means without being terrifically intrusive. "Surely your adult relationships…"

"Were you not listening?" she cries, angry, embarrassed, ashamed. "I haven't _had_ any 'adult relationships'! How could I _possibly_ ever risk…"

She stops, remembering that this entire conversation is happening because she _had_ forgotten, _had_ taken the chance.

"I'm so sorry," she says again. "I should never have… it just felt…" She looks up at him woefully, forcing herself to be absolutely honest. "I only… Oh, Red, I just wanted you so."

He'd thought he was a hardened cynic, that he was too old and embittered for heartbreak. He had never been so wrong.

* * *

They sit, drinking quietly, silence heavy and strained between them. He can't quite decide what to say to her, with her sorrowful liquid eyes pulling at him even as her words and her closed off body language push him away. Before he can make up his mind, she takes a deep breath and speaks first.

"Will you… working with you today, it made me stronger, better. The fire, it… I've never had that kind of control. I think… I mean, can we…" she gives up, embarrassed and miserable, twisting her fingers together nervously.

A pang runs through him at her words, her hesitance; obviously he has yet to truly win her trust. He puts his drink down and turns to her, taking her firmly by the shoulder with one hand. He runs his other hand soothingly over her hair and wraps it gently around her neck, forcing her to look at him. He floods her with the care he feels for her, and can see her nervy tension start to ease even before he begins to speak.

"I came here for _you_ , Lizzie, to help you and to be here for you. That won't change, won't ever change, no matter what. We're in this together, now, okay?"

Her face breaks; she burrows into him, clinging to his vest. She's overwhelmed by emotion, her own and his. His sorrow and sympathy; her bleak happiness and relief. A rushing of affection that seems to belong to them both.

He breathes deeply, wrapping his arms around her tightly, absorbing her scents and textures. He briefly debates with himself; but has to speak. He can't stop himself, really.

"We _will_ continue to work together, I promise. You are capable of so much, and I am going to help you find your way. But there's so much more, sweetheart."

She shakes her head mutely against his chest; he can feel the emotions pouring out of her — relief, confusion, sadness, denial, and then his own happiness, all blurring together.

"You're a mess of emotion right now," he points out gently, loosening his grip and easing back so he can see her face. "But you aren't in any danger of losing control, are you? Your temperature hasn't changed; I'd have noticed. I can't feel it, can you?"

"I…" she pauses, waiting for it, the rush, the sparks, the heat. But, "No," she says, surprised. "There's nothing."

"I'm helping you," he says. "I can manipulate mood, remember? You're feeling both of our emotions, and I'm using my own abilities to temper them enough so you can tolerate them. Do you understand? Do you see what it means? I can help you actively control the flame. And I think, I really do, that I can help you with your other… problem, too."

She blinks, her mind stopped completely, caught in a moment, in a breath of time.

"I… I don't think I know what you mean," she says faintly, not wanting to accept what he's saying.

He laughs a little, warmly, because he can feel her tentative curiosity.

"Oh, I think you do," he says, cradling her face in warm hands. "But only if you want it, Lizzie. It's up to you."

He kisses her forehead gently, then leans back, dropping his hands and smiling at her. He tilts his head, just so, waiting for her to decide.


	8. Issue 08: Smoke

" _But only if you want it, Lizzie. It's up to you."_

He's watching her, waiting, an indecipherable look on his face behind his slight smile. She's not sure what to do. She takes another sip of her drink and looks away, so she can think more clearly.

She can still feel the warmth of his hands on her cheeks, her skin faintly tingling. Her mind is a whirl of confused thoughts and feelings. Is it really possible that something she had denied, had put out of her mind for so long, had convinced herself she didn't need or want, could actually be within her reach?

Did she want it enough to embrace the terrible risks?

She looks at Red, at his handsome, charismatic face; at his strong, capable hands. She thinks of the things that have happened since he swept into her life; the things that he has done for her, the talks they have had, the way he seems to understand the turmoil inside her.

She thinks of the way that his lips felt against hers, of the rush of warmth and eagerness he'd brought out of her body. Just the memory of it warms her a little. Surely it can't be wrong to want something for herself?

She turns back to him, putting her jar back on the table, reaching out for his hand and gripping it hard to give herself strength.

"I think," she says softly, "That I would like that very much."

He squeezes her hand tightly. "I'm glad to hear that," he replies, and a rising heat begins to mingle with hers.

He puts a hand on her cheek, and gently rubs his thumb along her lips in a mirror of her own earlier gesture.

"So soft," he murmurs, "You have such a lovely mouth."

And then he leans in and kisses her, just a gentle press of lips.

"It's so simple," he says, "It's just you and me. Think about how it feels, and what you like. Just feel, and don't worry about anything else."

He kisses her again, a little more intense, a little more focused. His hand slides from her cheek into her hair to hold her close, his other hand still clasping hers.

She feels terribly alive, as if she's standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if she'll fall.

She throws herself into the feeling, sighing into him, letting him slide his tongue along hers. Her free hand curls into his vest, clutching for stability. She can feel his heart beating, quick and hard and matching hers; her breath is coming short and fast. In a haze of hot desire, her fingers start to twitch in his hand and against his chest — he pulls gently away, and she feels his particular soothing calm fill her, quiet her.

He rests his forehead against her; for a long moment, they just breathe together.

"See," he says. "Easy as breathing."

She lets out a choked little laugh, struggling for control — now that she's paying attention, she can feel her veins twisting with lazy sparks.

"Right," she gasps, "Easy."

"Well," he concedes. "Maybe not. Worth a little effort, though, don't you think?"

She laughs again, more naturally this time. "Oh, I suppose," she replies, putting light teasing into her tone.

"You _suppose_ , do you?" His voice is a low growl that sends shivers down her spine. "Perhaps you need a little more convincing."

And he yanks her back into him, kissing her fiercely. Her thoughts fall into dust and she gives herself over to sensation — his mouth, searing with demands; his hands, hard on her arms; his rich, simmering desire spiraling through her.

It's overwhelming, it's dangerous, she should be terrified… and yet, she can also feel his smooth assertiveness coating her, shielding her, keeping the flame at bay.

He breaks the kiss only when this calm starts to flicker, starts to trade places with a spark, then two, three. He takes a deep breath, and she realizes (with some gratification) that he, too, needs to steady himself.

"Convinced?" he asks, rubbing her arms gently as if to ease them both. "Or have you changed your mind?"

His tone is half-teasing, half-challenging, as if he is daring her to try and deny their connection. But she wouldn't, she _can't_ , and it isn't a thing to joke about anymore.

She has never wanted anything so much, so viscerally as she wants to travel this road with him; everything inside her has changed, has turned on end and twisted around, and she's desperately trying to keep up.

"I know what I want," she says, quietly serious. "I want this, you and me, together. I want everything you can teach me, Red."

He smiles at her — a slow, real smile — and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"Then we both have something to look forward to," he says softly. "Now, how about dinner?"

Despite their closeness, despite her swirling emotions, the draining physical effort of the day, followed by the emotional overload of the evening, has left her ravenous. She shakes out her hands to settle herself, and agrees.

* * *

After everything, she's not sure how she will possibly sleep, but the moment her head hits the pillow, she tumbles into slumber and doesn't even twitch until morning.

When she wakes, coiled in a warm bed in the mysterious writer's house, she feels flush with wellbeing, filled with possibilities, and more _herself_ than she has since her father's death.

She prepares for the day with a dreamy smile on her face, remembering. His touch, cool on her skin; his mouth, soft and supple and generous; the taste of him, like spices and mint and smoke.

He'd left her at her bedroom door last night with a kiss on the forehead, a stroke of her hair, and a smile more genuine than she'd seen on him before. She thinks he might be as filled with happy expectation as she is.

She trots down the stairs, following the scent of coffee to the kitchen, trying to temper her eagerness before he senses it. She feels as if she can't wait to see him again, to be with him, her system already jumping in anticipation.

But when she _does_ see him, sitting at the kitchen table in vest and shirtsleeves, reading the paper with his legs stretched out, she freezes, suddenly at a complete loss.

But of course he know that she's there; he looks up at her, smiling so broadly it's like a ray of sunshine. He's up and in front of her in a flash of movement, his hands on her upper arms, his pleased affection washing over her.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he says warmly, kissing her cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

"Amazingly so," she admits, thrilling inwardly at his touch. "It's been ages since I slept that well."

"It was a long and challenging day yesterday — it's not really surprising. What would you —"

The harsh buzz of her cell interrupts him; it's Ressler, so she answers it with an apologetic shrug, guessing unhappily that this first step, this little bubble of time, is over now.

* * *

"Milhoan." Sharp and harsh; Ressler always sounds angry at something. "Turn on the TV."

"Which channel," she asks, moving toward the small screen in the corner of the room.

"Any channel," comes Ressler's grim reply.

And that simply, her world reverts to the whirlwind of noise and movement and horrors, all sharp corners and hard edges and fear.

Nearly forty dead, it's a tragedy that doesn't seem quite real — what could possibly be the reason? In the dark recesses of the Post Office, Aram picks out the perpetrator so easily that she has to wonder if this villain is even trying to hide, has to wonder what he is really doing. If he may not be the heedless killer that he seems, thirsty for destruction, but a man driven by a different need.

Now, before the scramble to ID this new killer can even really begin, Red's on the phone.

"I can identify the man you're looking for, Lizzie."

"You're kidding," she answers, but then thinks better of it. "Of course, you're not. Who is he?"

"Phones are so impersonal. Why don't we meet for show and tell in thirty minutes? Dembe will forward you a location."

With Red's tale of the suddenly mad scientist Frederick Barnes, her day really takes off. The hospital, the CDC, the horrifyingly changed faces of the dead. A clue — a radioactive isotope — and Red is off, gone to Cuba, hopefully to lead them to Barnes' location. As he leaves, he gives her hand a fierce squeeze, pressing a key into her palm with a raise of an eyebrow and a nudge of importance.

She and Ressler drive off to meet Barnes' ex-partner, sorrowful and worried; then there's the boy, with his tell-tale illness, unlocking a huge part of the case in a burst of clarity. Then it's a race, a race to find a killer, to prevent further deaths.

And so, somehow, she finds herself on the steps of the courthouse, facing off with a man whose calm and quiet demeanor belies the gun in his hand. The gun that is firmly pressed into the neck of an aging and frightened security guard.

"I'm only gonna say this once," she says, trying to sound strong and assertive. "Drop the gun."

"You first," Barnes replies coolly. "I'm gonna count to three. If that gun is not on the ground, I will shoot this man."

"And you will be dead one second after."

He ignores her completely. "One…two…three!"

"You don't have to do this!" She shouts over the sound of his count, but he is utterly unreachable, and on "three", he cocks the hammer.

"All right!" she yells, frustrated and angry. She takes her own finger off the trigger of her service revolver and puts up her hands in a show of non-aggression. "All right."

"Drop the gun," he insists, "And kick it away."

She hesitates, training nagging at the back of her mind.

"Drop the gun! NOW!"

She can't watch Barnes shoot a man right in front of her. She crouches and places her gun on the step; stands and kicks it away.

"Let him go."

Barnes looks grim; he fires several shots into the windows above the courthouse doors, only afterward shoving the guard away. In the ensuing shrieking chaos, he evades her easily.

She wonders how Red is getting along.

* * *

Back at the Post Office, talking the case out with Ressler and Malik, it all starts to take shape, to make a twisted kind of sense. She could almost feel sorry for Barnes.

But then, then she's in Cooper's office, like a troublesome kid at the mercy of the school principal.

"You're on duty, correct?" he asks abruptly. She nods, a little confused. "Are you carrying your badge?"

"Of course," she answers.

"Why?"

"Because it's protocol."

"Then would you care to explain why you would surrender your firearm to a suspect in the middle of a hostage situation?"

_Ressler_. That… dammit.

"It was a judgment call," she replied earnestly. "Barnes was going to kill that officer."

"I realize you're new at this, Agent Milhoan, but some rules don't have exceptions. And giving up your weapon, that happens to be top of the list."

"I am fully aware of our field regulations." She's stiff and awkward now — she can't help it.

"And since you willfully ignored them," Cooper continues, "Your actions will be subject to a formal review."

Closer scrutiny was _not_ something she wanted; possibly something she wouldn't survive.

"What does that mean?" She tries to keep the flash of panic out of her voice.

"It means an administrative panel will decide whether or not you'll be sanctioned. And we'll see where we go from there."

And just like that, she is neatly and politely dismissed. She heads straight for Ressler, the anger roiling within.

"You mind telling me what the hell that was?" she hisses at him, barely maintaining control.

"If you're asking whether or not I reported you," he says calmly, "The answer is yes."

"Why would you do that?" she cries, unaccountably hurt as well as angry.

"Look, Milhoan. I like you. I respect you. But that moment back there with Barnes showed me that you aren't qualified to be in the field."

"You would have taken the shot?" she snaps in disbelief. "Is that it? It's easy to make the tough call after the fact, isn't it?"

"It's what any trained field agent would have done, which is precisely the point."

"And that hostage would be dead."

"Then I guess that's just what happens," he answers, shrugging.

"That's a man's _life_ you're talking about!" She can't quite get a grip on herself; her fingers are starting to twitch and she's breathing fast.

"Yes," he answers simply, sighing. "One man's, which _you_ traded for hundreds, possibly thousands, by letting Barnes get away. And if you can't understand why that's a bad call, you don't belong in a tactical unit."

And he walks away, leaving her seething, twitching, and alone.

* * *

She finds the address Red had texted her, digging the key he'd slipped her out of her bag and slamming into the apartment.

_Of course, it's an apartment today_ , she thought snippily, kicking the leg of the couch in frustration. She wanted to scream — and couldn't. Wanted to throw things — and couldn't.

She knew she was at a dangerous point, her anger surging, limbs trembling and twitching, and so close to being out of control. She dropped her bag and jacket and sat down on the floor right there in the living room, her eyes closed, trying to breathe evenly.

She could hear her father's voice in her head, smooth and reassuring. _You've got to focus, channel your feelings. Don't let the fire win; don't let it beat you, Butterball._

Breathing, in and out, forcing her muscles to ease, thinking of Sam — it helps her claw back enough control that she is no longer shaking; no longer in immediate danger of burning the building down, at least.

She knows it won't last long.

She misses Red with a fierce, visceral ache that astonishes her; his warm affection, his blanketing calm, the way he always seems to know exactly what she needs even when she does not. But his texts confirmed that he won't be back until at least midday tomorrow, and she will never make it through the night like this.

She needs to be out of this confining little apartment, to be gone; needs the streets, a fight, a release. He has repeatedly cautioned her against it — too dangerous, he says, with Russian spies hunting her, with her new position in the FBI. There are too many variables for her to be safe.

But she knows how to be sly and swift and secret, and she has virtually disappeared from her former life. And if it's a choice between remote risk and burning down Red's safe house…

She's out the door in a rush, out into the night.

* * *

She runs instead of walking, taking joy in the cool air on her face. She's unnoticeable in the shadows of the alleyways that she prefers. She doesn't have to go far to find good hunting.

She's not generally a violent person (she's not, she's _not_ ), but at these times, there's something brutally satisfying about the impact of her fists on flesh, in the sweeping movements of her limbs, of the use of all her strength. It all fulfills some dark corner of her psyche that she doesn't like to think about, a desire that she can't explain.

Time passes in a blur of kicks and punches, chain-link fences and dumpsters and wet asphalt; humanity at its ugly worst. It's very late — or early — when, already bruised and her rage on the wane, she comes across a mugging. Two unpleasantly thick and hairy thugs are menacing a very young-looking man clutching a night-deposit bag.

She doesn't hesitate, using the element of surprise, knocking down one thug with a hard heel to the back of the knee and ramming her elbow into the other one's sternum. The knee crumples, howling, while the sternum makes a shocked, garbled choking noise, his arms flailing. She takes the opportunity to drive her fist into his gut.

Leaving Thug #2 retching painfully in a huddle, she turns back to Thug #1, who is still struggling to get up, and kicks him in the face as hard as she can. His nose breaks, maybe even a cheekbone — he deflates into the ground, out for the count.

Then, she miscalculates. She bends over to secure Thug #1's hands with a flex cuff, and that's when Thug #2, apparently at least partially recovered, hits her from behind, his arms wrapping around her legs as her knocks her down with a tackle.

Thug #1 breaks most of her fall, but she feels the skin on her jaw tear and scrape. Thug #2's face presses into her lower back, his arms scrabbling to hold her thrashing legs. He's much stronger than she is; with him on top of her, she has no chance.

Fear gives her system a boost, and she thinks of Red, of the work they did together, of the things that he said she was capable of. She stops struggling, turns inward, and focuses, hard.

Just as Thug #2 clambers up her prone body and grabs her hair, yanking her head back, her body flashes hot. Her skin is scalding, burning, but she is managing to hold back the flame. Her assailant recoils with a shriek and rolls off of her to writhe on the ground, his hands, arms, face all dark red and starting to blister.

She wrestles the heat down, hopping to her feet, giving #2 a couple of swift parting kicks to release the rest of her adrenaline. She shakes out her hands, rolling her head to stretch out her neck. _She did it_. She feels _amazing_ , and utterly proud of herself.

Tidily cuffing the two muggers, she takes off for the apartment without ever speaking a word, leaving the suddenly fortunate young man gaping after her fleet form as she dissolves into the night.


	9. Issue 09: Backdraft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just the worst at posting. I seem to have taken the summer off… As penance, here are the last two chapters of this first story arc, and thank you so much to everyone who has borne with me and read this adventure. I hope you like it!

Adrenaline carries her through the next day as she and Ressler track Barnes. Talking to the lone survivor at the CDC, finally realizing the truth about what Barnes is doing. Facing him once again, this time with a needle poised at his young son's neck, her decision suddenly seems simple.

It's not until she's outside, surrounded by flashing lights, watching them cart his body toward the coroner's van, that she starts to shake.

Is this to be her life? Steeped in violence and death day in and day out? Can she no longer reach anyone any other way?

It's then, just as she's about to break, that she feels a familiar presence, if quieter than usual, and Red is there behind her.

"What are you doing here?" she asks softly, keeping her eyes on the boy, away from the hideous black bag.

"I brought you a souvenir," he replies with a cheerful boom that rings false. "What's your feeling about guava?"

"Anxiety," she says flatly. Why is he so cavalier? Can't he feel her devastation?

He chuckles. "Oh, you're in for a treat. I take it from the coroner's van that Barnes is no longer with us. Pity."

Her heart stumbles inside her aching chest. "Tell that to the families of the people he murdered," she snaps back, hiding her pain in anger, stubbornly looking away.

"Every cause has more than one effect," he says heavily. "Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who's willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about… That's a man I understand."

She wheels around, angry enough now to meet his gaze without quailing or breaking down.

"Is that meant to be directed at me?"

"Aren't you presumptuous?" he shoots back, raising an eyebrow at her. Then his face creases, and his tone changes. "And what if it was? Would you accept that gift, Elizabeth, or would you throw it back in my face?"

"I… what?" He has taken the wind out of her sails completely, his anger striking like a lash.

"This isn't the right place for this conversation." He takes her arm firmly. "We're going home, now. You can do your paperwork tomorrow."

* * *

She keeps silent in the car, focusing on keeping herself together, although she inwardly resents his high-handedness. He remains quiet as well, his emotions withdrawn and locked down, the look on his face drawn and slightly grim.

They enter the apartment together, still silent; Liz kicks off her shoes and goes straight to the corner of the couch to curl up like a kitten, leaving Red still hanging his hat and coat with his customary care. His expression is grimmer still when he turns to face the living room, but the lines soften slightly when he sees her in her small huddle.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his tone somewhat conciliatory, walking over to the couch.

She looks up at him, her eyes damp, face pale. "No," she replies bluntly. "I'm not all right. I just shot and killed a man, Red, and maybe murdered a little boy in the process."

He sits down beside her with a sigh. "You did your job, Lizzie, and did it well. It's just as likely that you saved that little boy's life as condemned it."

She shrugs. "Maybe that's true," she says, her voice small. "Barnes was a single-minded man who was incredibly dangerous. But I don't think that's really why I shot him. I think I shot him to prove to myself that I could."

"And is that what you're in the business of these days?" he bites out, grim and bleak all over again, anger rushing out of him like bullets. "Proving yourself, regardless of the consequences?"

His harsh words shock her system as effectively as a slap to the face.

"Wh-What?" she stammers. "I-I'm asking for help here, Red. I need your support, I don't…"

"Oh, now you need me?" he demands sharply. "You need my support, but won't take my advice, don't take what I say seriously?"

She just looks at him, confused and hurt, anger of her own starting to simmer.

"Read the paper today? Seen the news?"

"I've been a bit busy," she retorts, "Tracking _your_ Blacklister."

He slaps a sheaf of newspapers down on the table in front of them both.

"Then you've missed you _debut_ ," he snarks, his voice dripping with disdain. "A Mysterious Heroine; Violent Vigilante; Night Stalker — I particularly like that one. And just _look_ at these lovely photos from that young clerk's cellular phone."

Her heart seizes until she sees the pictures — dark and blurry, and not one shows her face.

"That could be anyone," she points out, striving to keep her tone reasonable. "They don't know who I am. I don't think…"

"That much is obvious. I warned you not to go out, I _told_ you it was too risky, I _trusted_ you, and you…"

" _You_ warned, _you_ told, you, _you, YOU!"_ she shouts, leaping up, her nerves beyond frazzled, her emotions wrung out. " _You_ were gone, and _I_ was a mess. _I_ needed help. _I_ had to control the fire, _I_ did what I had to do, what I have done for years. It's not your business anyway."

His anger is briefly flavoured with hurt, then it all shutters away again.

"Your safety is very much my business." His voice is cold, so cold, and stiff. "And you might as well have drawn Volkov a map."

"There's nothing in any of these articles that identifies me," she cries. "You're being ridiculous. I know what I need to do — I don't need you to tell me."

She turns on her heel and stomps into the bedroom; starts tossing her things back into her bag.

"Lizzie," his voice comes at her from the doorway, rough, tired, impatient. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I don't _think_ I'm doing anything. I _am_ leaving." She shoves past him and stalks toward the front door.

"Lizzie," he says again, anger leaking out from under his tight control. "Get back here. You aren't leaving. It's not…"

" _You_ don't tell me what to do," she snaps back, facing him again.

He grabs her upper arms, as if he will hold her in place with everything he has to give.

"In this case," he answers, "I do. You _must_ stay here where you'll be safe."

His dam has broken, and his emotions flood the hallway in a maelstrom. His intensity, his strength, and most of all, the fear dancing at the edges of his anger frighten her. She tries to jerk from his grasp, but he is too strong.

"Let me go!"

"I'll tie you up if I have to," he avers. "Now just…"

_No_ , she thinks, panic-stricken, _NO_. And she calls the fire, heating her skin as she had the night before.

He yelps, and his hands leap off her — she runs, flat out, out of the apartment, out of the building and away.

* * *

In the end, he has Dembe track her down at the cheap motel she registers at, and has him keep watch over her. He knows she would hate it, would see it as several steps too far, but the choking panic that engulfed him as she ran from the apartment refused to subside. After a largely sleepless night, he capitulates to it, telling himself it would be worth it — this way, he can give her the time she surely needs to settle. To think through what had happened rationally, to come back to him.

After three days gone, he misses her like a limb, and mocked himself bitterly for letting his guard down so far, for letting her come so close so quickly.

His hands, mildly irritated but not seriously burned, heal in a week. A week in which she stays aloof, going only to work and back to her cheap motel, but thankfully, remaining indoors at night.

He contents himself with texting her updates as he changes locations, and waits.

What he finally gets, though, is an impatient call from Cooper, demanding another name, a new case, a continuing reason to leave Raymond Reddington running free.

* * *

_Ten days_ , she thinks, half-wistful, half-annoyed. _Ten days with nothing but addresses_.

She wonders, as she slumps in her desk chair and fiddles idly with paperwork, which of them will give in first, which of them will be the one to relinquish the higher ground. She has been stubbornly determined that it won't be her, but she is increasingly restless without the balm of his presence, anxious and edgy and irritable.

Only long workouts at the end of every shift, coupled with hours of meditation each night, have kept the flame in check. And even at that, she feels only moments away from losing the tenuous hold she has on herself.

That morning, she'd woken in the pre-dawn haze shrieking from a nightmare that she cannot remember, smoldering like a coal in her motel bed. It's lucky she'd kept her set of Nomex sheets with her, or she'd have had some very awkward explaining to do.

A tap on her doorframe brings her eyes up.

"You look awful, Milhoan," Ressler says cheerfully. "When was the last time you slept?"

"What do you want, Ressler?" she answers grouchily.

He smirks at her obnoxiously. "Missing Uncle Red, _Lizzie_?" The look she gives him must have spoken volumes, because he straightens and clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he is cool and clear. "Cooper tells me he'll be in later today. For now, you're with me. The back door team isn't answering comms; we're checking it out." He jerks his head toward the door and strides off.

She groans and rolls her head to ease her aching neck, then gets up to follow him, trying to quell the small glow burning within at the thought of seeing Red later.

* * *

Shots echo, bullets fly, chaos reigns.

_Where_ are _you, Red?_ she thinks fiercely, firing with one hand and supporting the bleeding and limping Ressler with the other. _And what the hell is going on?_

Out of time, with Ressler becoming increasingly dead weight at her side, the wide mouth of the Box has become a haven. She staggers toward it, pushing Ressler in behind her; she slams her hand onto the closure and stands waiting, firing steadily, until their prison of safety is complete.

The mercenaries who were pursuing them break off shooting as it becomes useless, cursing. One runs off, presumable to find their superior; the other stays standing guard outside, watching them.

Secure, for now, she turns to assess the state of her companion. Despite his condition, he's managed to haul himself onto the cot in the corner, blood running down his leg to pool on the floor. The shotgun blast has left his quad looking like so much ground beef, and he's losing too much blood, too fast.

_Okay_ , she thinks, _tourniquet_.

She recounts the steps in her head, drilled into her by Sam during training — of which first aid was a major and necessary part — looking around in some desperation at the stark and empty cage. There's nothing, not even a pen or pencil to use as a tightener. Even the blanket on the cot is too thick to tear.

She sighs, then pulls off her jacket and then her shirt, sparing a brief moment to be thankful for her support tank, and methodically tears her shirt into strips. _Out of ammo anyway_ , she thinks, as she breaks down her gun to make use of her cartridge. Tying three strips of her shirt together into a circle, she slides the loop over Ressler's leg and secures the cartridge.

"Okay, Ressler," she says. "This is going to hurt quite a lot."

And she twists, as fast and as hard as she can, while Ressler screams.

* * *

He's in the elevator, trying out and discarding opening lines, when the power shuts off. He gives it a minute, although he knows instinctively this means trouble. He tries the call button, for the sake of things, but gets no response. There's no cell reception in the underground elevator, either, and he's afraid that he knows all too well what's going on.

He looks up at the ceiling and sighs — he's not going to like this one bit. He takes himself down to his shirtsleeves and vest, folding his coat, jacket, and tie neatly and placing his hat jauntily atop the pile.

He can just reach if he stretches, and with a little effort manages to punch up the maintenance hatch. The metal edges of the hole in the roof look keen and sharp; he removes his shoes and socks and preemptively knots the socks around his palms for protection. With consideration, he ties the laces of his shoes together and hangs them around his neck — his bare feet will be useful climbing up and out, but there's no need to roam the Post Office like some sort of barbarian.

It takes him a couple of tries to jump and grab the edges of the opening with enough momentum to be helpful, and as he heaves himself up and scrambles out of the elevator with a complete lack of dignity, he's quietly thankful that he's alone. He takes a precious moment to sit on the roof and catch his breath, and replace his socks and shoes.

_Now_ , he thinks, standing up and looking around curiously. _I just have to find my way out of here_.

* * *

She sits on the uncomfortable folding chair beside the cot and the unconscious Ressler, holding his hand and trying to think. She can't decide whether to be sorry that it isn't Red in here, to help her, or to be glad that he is well out of harm's way. She straightens when she hears footsteps, looking out the door of the Box to see the face of the enemy ahead.

It's a huge man, tall and heavy both, balding and grizzled, but with full, fierce eyebrows and cold, dark eyes. He walks right up to the Box and presses his hands against it, testing. He meets her gaze and smiles chillingly.

"Ah, little Masha," he says, almost crooning, his accent thick on his tongue. "All grown up now, aren't you? Why don't you come out of there, so we can avoid any further… unpleasantness?"

_So it_ is _Volkov_ , she thinks grimly. _Red was right again. Of course._

"I can't," she answers aloud, digging deep for a cool tone and a still face. "I don't have the entry code. Only Assistant Director Cooper knows what it is."

"Hmm… I wonder if that's true." Volkov turns his head and barks sharply in Russian at the men standing behind him.

They march off, men on a mission, and Volkov turns his attention back to her.

"So," he says thoughtfully, pacing to and fro in front of the Box slowly. "All the secrets, all of that knowledge, all locked up in that pretty little head, yes? I wonder how long it will take to get them all out."

She shudders and tightens her grip on Ressler's hand reflexively, afraid now, so afraid.

"I don't know anything," she says. "Only what I am. Please, I just want…"

"Oh, Masha," he replies. "It doesn't matter what you want."

His men are back, bringing stacks of explosives with them. They immediately set to work, piling them along the walls of the Box.

"That won't work," she informs him coolly, hoping that it's true.

"We'll see," he answers. "In the meantime…"

But he's interrupted by a clatter of noise at the doorway, and the room is suddenly full of people. More of Volkov's men appear, and then what seems like every face Liz has come to know over her weeks in the Post Office, a grim parade that ends with Malik and Cooper, and her heart sinks.

Cooper raises a questioning eyebrow, looking to Ressler, and she can only shrug helplessly. He's barely twitched since he passed out, and while her makeshift tourniquet has slowed his bleeding considerably, it hasn't stopped, either. Cooper's face is drawn and worried, but he tips his head to Malik and then to his other side, and she realizes Aram is missing from the group. It's a relief, but it doesn't exactly fill her with hope — Aram is intelligent and sweet, but he's hardly a fighter.

Volkov is all smiles as he walks over to the cluster of FBI — he picks out Cooper without hesitation, and she wonders just how long he's been watching her. It occurs to her then that she should also be wondering just how he got into a secret, unnamed FBI blacksite in the first place. She watches warily from the corner of her eye, giving Ressler's shoulder a hard shake with a terrible sense of foreboding.

"Wh-What's going on?" he mumbles, his voice tight with pain.

"We're in trouble," she replies quietly. "How likely is Cooper to give up the entry code to the Box?"

"He won't," Ressler avers, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows so he can see what's happening.

Volkov is angry now, shouting and gesturing, but Cooper's face remains an impassive mask. There's a pause in which nothing at all happens, and the sick fear inside her intensifies until she's afraid she'll actually vomit.

Then Volkov has Malik by the arm, and is yanking her toward the Box, his features distorted with rage.

"Do you know this woman, Masha? Care about her? Her children? Come out of there, and I won't have to kill her."

"But I _can't_ ," she yells back, standing to face him, shaking all over in panic. "I don't know the code, I swear it!"

He shrugs then, his face gone still and calm, pulls out his pistol and cocks it, pressing the muzzle into Malik's temple. Malik closes her eyes briefly, then opens them and smiles calmly at Liz.

"Ressler?" Liz cries, her eyes locked on Malik's now.

"I ca… don't know, either."

She doesn't really notice his brief hesitation, already shouting at Cooper to please open the door, please, what does it matter, anyway?

Cooper shakes his head at her firmly. "I won't give in to terrorism," he says. "And besides, you…" He stops suddenly and just shakes his head again.

"It's okay, Liz," Malik has time to say.

The noise of the gunshot seems to be the loudest thing Liz has ever heard; it echoes in her head, over and over again.

And all she can do is stand there, shocked and shaken, watching Meera Malik's blood and brain matter slide down the glass in front of her.


	10. Issue 10: Ignition

_Crawling_ , he thinks ruefully, _really isn't for me_.

He's been moving along the ceiling for some time, waiting to see something he recognizes or hear a familiar voice. So far, all he's heard is rough exchanges in Russian. He is cold and stiff right through, with fear as much as his cramped conditions. He stops moving for a moment to gather himself, and then he hears it.

"Okay, okay, um… no, that's not…"

A familiar voice, at last, muttering to the rhythm of the tapping of keys. He lifts a ceiling tile and drops through the resulting hole, landing heavily directly in front of Aram, who makes an ungainly choking noise and stares in disbelief.

"Aram, my goodness," he says, careful to sound normally buoyant. "Where are we, and what are you up to?"

"M-Mr. Reddington?" Aram stammers. "Wh-What are _you_ doing here?"

"Just dropping in," he replies with a cheerful smirk. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just couldn't help myself. I was on my way in with a case when everything started. Now, Aram, would you be so kind as to brief me?"

"Sorry, I… Yes, sir, Mr. Reddington. We're in the main generator room. I'm trying to restore the telecom so we can call in the cavalry."

"And where is everyone?"

"Captured," Aram answers bleakly.

Red's heart stops beating for one soul-chilling moment. "Agent Milhoan?" He doesn't think his voice has betrayed him.

"She and Agent Ressler made it to the Box," Aram says. "I think they're still safe, for now."

Red nearly staggers under the relief that courses through him, so strong that he can see some of the tension ease out of Aram's wiry frame in response. He feels a deep yearning to have the steadfast Dembe by his side, but he'll make it work.

"How long until you have telecom restored?" he asks briskly.

Aram shakes his head regretfully. "I haven't been able to hack around it," he says. "they must be jamming the signal internally."

"How?"

"Uh, based on just the waveform readings and the wattage output, it's, uh, something powerful, but, uh, portable."

"Where would they place it?" He maintains his patient leading with some effort.

"All the uplink and communication relays are in the subfloor garage," Aram answers, voice gaining confidence.

"Could you reset the telelcom if the jammers were disabled?"

"It would automatically reset, yeah."

"Good," Red exclaims, slapping Aram on the back. "Do you have a weapon?"

"Uh, yeah, why?" Aram replies nervously, confidence dissolving.

"Because we are going to go and find those jammers, Aram, and save the day."

Aram shifts uncomfortably. "Um, I-I've only shot at paper."

Red checks the doorway and glances left and right to clear the hallway.

"Then pretend they're paper."

* * *

She can't stop shaking; perversely, she can't move.

The mercenaries are already at work again, setting up explosives, guarding their prisoners, watching the door. They have left Malik's body in its pitiful bloody heap in front of the Box — Liz can't take her eyes off it. Her heartbeat, the pulse of her blood, pound in her ears.

"Agent Milhoan," Ressler's voice is faint; she doesn't really register it, lost in horror. " _Agent Milhoan_." Stronger now. " _LIZ!_ "

The sound of her first name coming from Ressler shakes her mind loose at last and frees her from her paralysis. She turns to look at him, and is shocked all over again by his appearance — pale, sweaty, and ill, his eyes clouded and his large frame wracked with pain.

"Ressler…" she goes to his side and takes his hand again, feeling helpless.

"I'm losing too much blood," he rasps out. "Dying, I'm…"

"No! Ressler, no," she says, panicking again. "No, you'll be okay."

She leans over to look more closely at his wound. She can see right through to the femoral artery — if she can close the small nick there, and seal the rest, he should at least stop bleeding.

"I won't be okay," he's saying painfully. "Milhoan, would you do something for me?"

"No," she says again, firmly. "I won't, because you are _not_ going to die. Just… just be quiet for a minute and don't freak out, okay?"

"What are you…"

His voice trails off as she moves the chair and sits beside his thigh, positioning herself with her back to the door and her actions largely shielded from the men outside. She closes her eyes and breathes, looking for the calm place inside her, looking for her point of focus. She reaches for the feeling she'd had that day with Red (it seems so long ago, now), the way everything inside her had bent to one purpose, had finally aligned and found its way.

She sits quietly and breathes, thinking of Red and flame and perfection.

"Milhoan," Ressler's voice floats into her consciousness. "You-You're hand is… is on _fire_ …"

She opens her eyes and a thrill runs through her — she's done it.

"Okay, Ressler," she says quietly. "Try not to move. And maybe bite down on something? This is really, really, going to hurt."

He shoves his tie into his mouth, eyes wide with terrified comprehension — but he nods his assent, all the same.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she brings her hand to hover over the horrible wound. She delicately extends her index finger, and very slowly starts to cauterize the nick in Ressler's artery.

She gets most of what she wanted done before his screaming distracts her enough to lose the flame.

* * *

He shatters the small black box clipped to the wall cables with the butt of his gun, getting immense satisfaction from the opportunity to smash something.

"How many of these things would they need to scramble the telecom signal?" he asks Aram.

"Uh, several. But just disabling two should be enough for the uplink to reset and reestablish a signal. Just… it won't be anywhere near full strength."

"Cellular?" Red asks, mind racing, still longing for his own people.

"You might have one bar," Aram answers doubtfully.

"That's not enough," Red says, frustrated. "This will be faster if we split up."

Before the wide-eyed Aram can reply, heavy footsteps approach from the corridor ahead. Red steps in front of Aram, grim-faced, shoving him toward a corner a few feet behind them.

"Go," Red hisses fiercely, "And get it done. We're all counting on you, now."

He faces forward, blocking much of the view behind him, and hears Aram scuttle hurriedly off as two hulking brutes appear. Evaluating quickly, he holds his hands in the air, showing his inactive weapon.

"Well, gentlemen," he says jovially, "Shall we go and meet the boss?'

* * *

Ressler has passed out again, which she supposes is for the best. Volkov is pacing in front of the Box, hammering away at her.

"Who should be next, hm, Masha? Who else's life will you sacrifice for your own?"

She has to bite down hard to keep from railing against the unfairness of this, but knows that she will be better served by keeping quiet — she doesn't even turn around.

"Listen up, little girl," Volkov continues, angrier now. "You…"

His voice trails off at the sound of booted feet approaching, and then, he starts laughing, and the sound chills her far more than his anger.

"So it's true," he chortles. "The infamous Raymond Reddington, reduced to snitching for the Feds — all for the sake of a woman."

_Oh no,_ she thinks, her heart plummeting. _Oh no, Red._

She turns slowly to face the door, and there he is — a little mussed and grubby, but whole and safe, and she breathes a little easier. She's missed him; she didn't realize how much until he was standing in front of her again. His face is dark and the air around him tinged with worry, but he sends her pleased relief — she thinks he is glad to see her safe as well. He holds up his hands, and she sees that his palms are smooth and completely healed, and her tension eases another notch.

"Well, Nikolai," he says smoothly. "You came here for her too, didn't you?" Liz feels a wave of reassurance now, and wishes that she could believe in it, believe that everything will be fine and they will somehow escape unscathed.

Volkov gestures to his men, and they haul Red forward to stand beside the Box. He has to sidestep quickly to avoid the sticky pool of blood.

"True enough," Volkov says to Red conversationally. "I'm having a little trouble with her though."

He looks at Liz, then, and she knows with sickening certainty that her face shows far too much as he smiles slowly.

"Maybe you can help me with that." And, without taking his eyes off her face, he raises his gun once more to rest against Red's temple.

"No!" she shrieks out, before she can stop herself, and Red closes his eyes briefly in defeat.

"Ah," Volkov says, and his voice is rich with triumph. "Well, well, how… interesting. Beauty and the Beast, is it? For fairness, Masha, I'll give you a ten count, yes?"

_Oh God,_ she thinks, bile rising in her throat. _Please_.

"Lizzie," Red says calmly, "Lizzie, no. Whatever happens, do _not_ come out."

She ignores him completely. "Cooper," she says instead, and is a little taken aback by the panic in her own tone. "Cooper, please. _Please_ tell him." She's shaking hard, now, and the heat is rising fast.

Cooper mutely shakes his head, looking immensely sorrowful, but firm. He is not going to budge, she can tell.

"Six… five… Halfway there, Masha," Volkov sing-songs.

Red is still talking, still telling her to stop, sending her calm, but he can't break through the tumult of her thoughts. She turns on her heel and rams her fist into Ressler's charred and bloody wound as hard as she can.

He jolts awake with a scream of agony, but she has no time for regrets.

"The code," she says fiercely. " _Now_ , Ressler — If not for me, then for yourself. I'm seconds away from losing it and _I'm_ not the one who will burn."

He gapes at her for a split-second and she knows he can see the flame dancing in her eyes when he blanches white as a sheet.

"Romeo," he chokes out, just as Volkov lets out an exultant "One!" "The code's Romeo."

Volkov laughs again, keenly mocking. "How ridiculously apt," he sneers, and gestures with his gun at the man next to Cooper.

Liz moves to wait by the door, biting her lip nervously, for several nerve-wracking seconds until the machinery grinds to life with a clamour of beeps and everything starts to move.

"Oh, Lizzie," Red says unhappily. "I do wish you hadn't."

"Don't," she says bleakly. "I don't know what will happen now, but I _do_ know that I couldn't face any of this without you."

He starts to move to her side, but Volkov thrusts himself between them. "I think not, my lovelies," he says. "Come along, now, it's past time we were going."

He shouts a few brusque phrases in Russian, and everyone starts moving. Liz catches one last glimpse of Cooper, staring down at Malik's crumpled body, before she is hustled toward the long corridor that leads to the loading dock.

_No_ , she thinks, filling with determination, _I won't be taken_.

The heat starts to grow almost instantly; her tension and fear have kept it simmering just under the surface. She is just starting to glow bright when, "Ah, ah, ah," comes Volkov's voice from behind her. She feels a sharp, sudden pain behind her right ear, and everything goes black.

* * *

She comes to slowly, feeling nauseatingly like she is floating, just under the surface, the world rippling gently in front of her eyes. She's seated in a hard chair in a large, dingy room she guesses is in a warehouse of some kind. Her arms are turned painfully to her back and tied to what seems to be another person — it must be him.

"Red?" she croaks out, and hears his gusty sigh of relief.

"Lizzie," he says, "Listen to me. I know you're in pain and confused, but you have to…"

But his hurried words are cut short by the clang of an opening door, and Volkov swaggers into the room, followed by a much smaller man carrying a black leather case.

"So," Volkov booms out, dragging another chair out of a dark corner and sitting, facing her. "Now we are all nice and quiet, yes? So now it is time to tell me everything about yourself, and your parents, and then, I would like you to tell me where I can find the Fulcrum."

Panic swells easily and she starts to sweat. "I don't know _anything_ ," she replies emphatically. "I was barely more than a baby when my parents died — I can't even remember what they looked like." Her voice is thick with bitterness, and she feels Red touch her mind sympathetically. "All I know about myself are the bare facts, and what trial and error has taught me. And I've never even heard of 'the Fulcrum'."

Volkov sighs in mock disappointment. "I thought perhaps you would be ready to be more forthcoming, after earlier… events."

He beckons to the other man, who approaches her and starts rolling up her sleeve. He has a syringe between his teeth.

"There's no point in truth serum, or any kind of drug!" she snaps angrily. "I'm already telling the truth, and you can't torture information out of me that I don't have."

"You expect me to believe this!" he exclaims, standing abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. "That Katarina Rostova would leave her daughter alone and helpless, without the basic knowledge she needed to survive? Bah!"

He leans over her, shoving the other man out of the way, bracing his arms on either side of her legs and thrusting his face into hers.

"But here you are, little Masha, alive and well and perfectly able to use your powers. So, I think you _are_ lying to me, and I will prove it."

Her eyes brimming with tears now, she shakes her head, unable to speak.

"At any rate, Masha, this is not truth serum," he says, standing straight again. "You know that anesthesia blocks the impulses to the brain so one doesn't feel the sensation of pain. The drug that the kind doctor here is going to give you does the opposite — it enhances the impulses received by the brain."

He gestures at the doctor, who steps forward and, none too gently, inserts the needle into the meat of Liz's left bicep and slowly begins to depress the plunger.

"When the drug takes hold," Volkov continues, "The feeling of a breeze wafting against your skin will be enough to make you beg me to kill you. Then, I think, you'll want to tell me what I want to know."

Horror runs through her in a rushing tide; Red's echoing her own before he clamps down on it.

"No!" she cries, "You can't! The fire, pain brings it out. It's too dangerous!"

"The only one here that has to worry about _that_ is our friend Reddington," he replies, with a cruel smile. "So I suggest that you try _very_ hard to control yourself. I'll give you a few minutes to think things over."

He leaves quietly, the so-called doctor following in his wake.

A long moment of silence stretches out between them.

She can already feel the chill of the drug sinking into her veins, rousing the sparks to battle it, making her teeth chatter in cold and fear together.

"Lizzie." His voice comes from behind her, low and rich and _home_.

"Red, I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry I left, sorry I didn't listen, I…"

"I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me," he says with a hint of humour. "Because I think that this must have been in motion for much longer than I originally thought."

She doesn't answer, attention stolen by the air on her face, the rough cords wrapped around her wrists, the textures of her clothing pressing into her skin. Worse, the sparks rising and multiplying inside her despite her attempts to quell them.

"Lizzie," he says again. "You've got to let go and let it come."

"Red, _no_ ," she manages, her shock overtaking the pain. "We're tied together, you'll…"

"Be freed," he interrupts angrily. "So we can get out of here."

"I don't want to hurt you again," she whispers, her skin tingling and jumping.

He floods her with such a wealth of warm affection that she wants to weep.

"I don't think…"

"Do it!" he says sharply, withdrawing everything, leaving her gasping and bereft. "Don't think, act!" A rush of noise comes from outside the room. "Lizzie, do it _now_!"

The edge in his voice and the tension against her back give her what she needs, and she lets the flame out in a flash and a crackle of heat. She can just feel Red tugging on the ropes until they part, and he leaps to his feet and moves around to face her. Her face behind its shifting mask of gold and red is anguished, and she hasn't moved.

"Can you stop it?" he asks urgently. "Can you put it out, sweetheart?"

"I don't… help me…" she manages — never before has the fire hurt her, but the drug has made her agonizingly sensitive and the pain is feeding the fire in the most vicious of circles.

He reaches out with all his inner strength, pushing all the calm and control he can muster, seeking the switch that will quiet the flames.

"I can't," she gasps, "It's too much, I can feel… _everything_ , and it's too much. The fire _loves_ the drug and the pain, and I don't…" Her voice trails off into sobbing breaths.

Panic fills him in ugly familiarity and he can hear shouts outside.

"You… you have to knock me out," she chokes out. "There's no time…"

"Lizzie, no," he says, honestly shocked. "I can't… you…"

"Now… your turn," she murmurs, then puts everything she has left into one last word. " _ACT!_ "

So, with agony in his heart, he rips off his tie, wraps it around his hand, and punches her in the jaw. He watches her crumple in on herself as the fire winks out.

* * *

She dreams of snow; cool and white and clean. It's soft and peaceful and quieter than anything she has ever known. When sound does finally enter her perception, it's _his_ voice. She seeks it, floundering towards consciousness.

When she's alert enough to discern words, he seems to be having a ferocious argument with someone, but his voice stays low. _He doesn't want to wake me_ , she thinks, and the thought touches her enough to want to open her eyes.

She's tucked up across two seats on what she assumes is his jet, covered lightly with a soft blanket. He sits across the aisle, whisper-shouting into a cell phone, face fierce with annoyance.

"…If you think we are coming back there now, you are sadly mistaken," he's saying.

Her brain struggles to catch up. He must be talking about the two of them… where are they going and why? She struggles to sit up, relieved that movement causes only slight tingles of irritation over her skin.

"Red?"

He drops the phone and crosses the aisle to crouch before her, holding her hands and smiling into her face.

"Lizzie, you're awake," he says softly. "Are you all right, sweetheart? How much pain are you in?"

"I'm okay, I think," she answers, squeezing his hands in answering relief. His wrists are wrapped in clean white gauze, and her heart skips a beat. "Are you? Did I hurt you badly?"

"It's nothing, don't give it a single thought." He presses a kiss to her forehead, and they rest against each other for a short peaceful moment.

A tinny shout catches her attention. "Is that Cooper on the phone?"

"It is," he answers shortly. "I don't want you worrying about that."

Cooper's voice is just audible through the phone's small speaker, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Red," she says, "He's my _boss_. Put him on speaker."

He frowns, but steps back to his seat and complies with her request, sitting back down and holding the phone out between them.

"Director Cooper, sir," she says, as briskly as she can manage. "Agent Milhoan reporting in. Sir, is… is everyone…" Her voice falters a little. "Is everyone all right?"

The tone of Cooper's voice becomes noticeably warmer. "I'm very glad to hear from you in person, Agent Milhoan," he says. "All present and accounted for here — Aram got a signal out and backup arrived just minutes after you left. Agent Ressler is still in surgery, but you saved his life."

Something inside her loosens in relief, and she smiles. "I'm pleased to hear it, Sir," she says.

"So," he continues, becoming a little harder, "Adding abduction to your list of felonies, Reddington?"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Harold," Red retorts. "I am simply acting to safeguard Agent Milhoan, since you seem incapable of doing so."

"That's ridiculous!" Cooper blusters, but he doesn't sound so sure.

"Isn't it just?" Red returns bitterly. "A top-secret FBI blacksite infiltrated by the FSB. You have a mole, Harold, probably more than one. What are you going to do about it?"

The conversation goes on for some time. Cooper rages and demands, Liz pacifies and tries to reason, while Red makes cool, assertive statements with no room for compromise at all. It is finally agreed that Red is right and DC is, at least for now, unsafe for them both. Cooper is intent on making sure Red keeps to their agreement, though, and Liz is still employed by the FBI. They make arrangements to meet two agents that Cooper trusts when they land in Paris. They will stay in touch while the Task Force rebuilds, and a full investigation is run.

When the conversation is over, Red hangs up and then crushes the phone to splinters under his shoe. She raises an eyebrow at that, but he just smiles, and she is so very tired.

"I've never been to Paris," she says, instead of starting an argument.

His smile grows, and he moves across the aisle to sit down beside her, enveloping her in emotional warmth.

"Are you in much pain?" he asks solicitously.

She considers briefly. While her head throbbed and her muscles ached from the flame, the drug seems to have mostly worked its way through her system. Movement and touch still seem to cause sharp tingles of awareness across her skin, but it isn't particularly painful. If anything, it's a little… electrifying.

"No," she replies. "My head hurts a little, but I suppose that's to be expected."

He reaches out to stroke her cheek gently. "Perhaps we should have you fitted with a helmet," he says teasingly. "I'm not sure how many more concussions you can take."

"Oh, that's a lovely thought," she returns with a smile. "Not a chance, Reddington."

She gives him a poke in the chest for emphasis, and he takes the opportunity to grab her hand and bring it to his mouth for a soft kiss. She trembles, inside and out, and leans in to him a little.

"You frightened me," he admits, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "Coming out of the Box like that. If things had gone differently…"

"But they didn't," she interrupts firmly. "And I'll never apologize for saving your life, Red. I care about you, so much I can hardly breathe half the time. I…"

Before she can continue her tirade, his mouth covers hers hotly, sweetly, his emotions following in a rush of heat and adoration. She kisses him back fiercely, wrapping her arms around him tightly. They spend a few long moments wrapped in each other, touching and tasting, celebrating the fact that they were alive, whole, safe — and together.

Just as her breath starts to get short, he breaks away with a sigh. "You should rest, sweetheart, and I'm not sure how much control I have in me at the moment. Why don't you lie down again?"

She's regretful, but exhausted, and she knows he is right. Besides, they have all the time in the world ahead of them now. She turns and lays back so her head is resting in his lap and she is looking up at him. He smiles down at her and cradles her in his arms.

"So," she says, stifling a yawn. "How did we get here anyway? What happened to Volkov?"

His eyes go cold at the mention of the FSB agent. "Dembe brought a team and got us out safely," he says. "The ridiculous man had a tracking device planted in my shoe. Stroke of luck I didn't leave them behind in the elevator, I suppose."

She finds a real, full smile inside her at that. "As if you ever would," she says affectionately. "And Volkov?"

"Dead," Red says flatly. "But you know it doesn't end there, Lizzie. It's barely the beginning."

"I know," she sighs. "We'll fight them together. A crime-fighting team." She grins up at him and a little mischief comes into her tone. "Like super heroes, battling the forces of evil across Europe. Red! We need code names."

He rolls his eyes dramatically, but he's still smiling. "I think I'll stick with Red, if it's all the same to you, Lizzie."

She grins. "Bo-ring," she sing-songs at him. "Fine. I think _I'll_ be… Phoenix."

"Overdone," he scoffs.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really? How about Flash? Or… Cinder?"

"Hm," he says, stroking her hair gently. "None of those really suit you. What about…" He thinks of her, wrapped in gold, glowing in dark of the night, glimmering like a beacon. "Ember."

"Ember," she murmurs. "I like it."

"Sleep now," he says quietly. "I'll keep you safe."

She closes her eyes, relaxing into his touch, his warmth, what she thinks now might be love, wrapping invisibly around her, and drifts easily away.

* * *

_Will Red and Liz find safety in Europe? Will Liz find the answers to her heritage? Will Red be able to keep her safe? Will they find a way to be together?_

_Find out next time, in **Ember: The Fulcrum**!_


End file.
